a loss.

"I hope you don't compare real life

 to an edited one." 

- sydney

How difficult, as a reader, it may be on occasion to remember that you aren't seeing the whole picture. But just the parts of a life that the writer deems "shareable." The parts that joined together with many other quieter but no less special moments add up to a whole life. I never want this place to be a negative one in any respect, and so I don't really talk about the dark and sad sorts of things. I would prefer to make someone smile or share a cute photo of an adorable precocious child. And I've got plenty of those. Blogging can be weird. 

But that doesn't mean those dark moments aren't there. It doesn't mean that life is perfect or that I am happy all day every day. It just means that darker part of me is a part I'll keep for me. For my family. I may be attempting business (or fun) as usual on the outside, but don't let that allow you to believe that I don't care about what's happening behind the curtain. Please don't believe that I'm not having times alone fighting a rising sense of panic as yet another bad moment joins the litany of other bad moments this year has brought. And as long as we are clear on that than I guess I can move on. Life ain't all roses. Least of all this one.

I feel like I owe it to my family to acknowledge what has been going on behind this curtain. I owe it to him. My grandfather has passed away. This new loss brings up the pain of recent past loss, of losing my grandmother. That wound was still raw. It's all too familiar, what's happened again. From a fall that broke his hip to Tuesday, it was twelve days of an emotional roller coaster. That finally ended for him yesterday. Surrounded by his children. Peaceful and I choose to believe, content. He finally gets to be with his wife, who left this earth last January. He told me then that it should have been him. Now they are together again. And I personally find peace in that. 

I'm thankful that we all got to see him on Thanksgiving. I'm thankful that I got to speak with him last week and tell him that I love him. I'm thankful that I heard him say he loves me too.

I'll try and remember the rounder version of him. The man that had a twinkle in his eye whenever he spoke of his mother, Letteria, and her cooking. I'll remember his hand gestures that were as much a part of talking as his voice. I'll remember his sly smile. I'll remember how he always inserted himself in the kitchen no matter who the chef. I'll remember how he needed the TV volume to be near deafening. I'll remember hearing him speak Italian in Italy. I'll remember the great sense of pride he had for his family.

Sometimes pictures can speak volumes more than any words ever could. And that's where I'll leave today's post. With a little bit of John Trovato...

"Then she sees some children in the street, making music. 

And before she knows it... 

she's smiling again." 

- Under the Tuscan Sun

I often look up from my own sadness and see my two playing and laughing. Pretending. Being perfectly content in their innocence. And just like Cabiria, I smile again. 

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