It's not dark yet. But it's getting there
As I've grown up..I have come to realize that everybody who has ever met my grandfather Joe Fortunato has loved him. 'Papa' was my first best friend. I lived with my grandparents for the first few years of my life in their house off Hamilton street in Worcester. I was the first grand-daughter...I was tiny and curious and had most of my first converstations with these hardworking Italian people..... Every little squeek and noise and word I spoke were their pride and joy. I think there are no words for the unconditional love these people have shown me throughout my entire stupid life. Papa gave me my first nick name...."La Filla Bella!" I was the Little Beauty. It would rain and rain I'd cry because I wanted to get pushed in the stroller up Harrington Way.....and even on the rainiest days Papa would push my carriage outside with an umbrella over me. He'd always get drenched and Mama and my Auntie Madeline and my and my mum would tease him for never being able to say no to my silly crying self. If it made me stop crying it was always worth it to him. When I got older papa would take me for walks up Harrington Way to the Ecotarium where they used to have the little train ride. The guys that worked their all knew our names. He was always so proud to introduce his little grand daughter. I was always smiling and in all the photographs from this time...I'm sitting with Papa. I had no interest in anybody else's company back then aside from my Auntie Madeline if Papa was terribly busy.
When my kitten ran away when I was 6...It was papa I cried on. When I fell off a swingset and broke my leg..it was Papa who carried me everyplace with my cast on. When anybody hurt my feelings or made me cry..it was Papa who stood up for me. When Mama would tell me not to say or act or do certain things because it wasn't lady like..Papa lovingly told her to shut the fuck up in Italian...When I needed food between school and ballet throughout highschool..it was papa who would pick me up at the studio and feed me. I can't imagine any other person showing up at my house with clementines and my favorite fresh bread from the bakery near his house for me. I will always think of him when I eat Russian Raisin bread from the Water Street bakeries. I cannot imagine life without this man. He was at every single first day of schooll...every single dance recital...every single time I fucked up and ended up in the hospital..Papa was there. When my father was too ashamed to love me, Papa did.
My grandfather turned 90 years old this month. He has lived through fighting a world war. He has lived to raise children. Grandchildren. Great grandchildren. And has watched countless others grow up and call him Papa even if they aren't actually his grandchildren. He has seen this city change and seen his friends raise their families and gone to most of his best friends wakes and funerals.
My Papa has cancer. We found out a few days ago. Although he pretends he is going to live another 90 years it is clear that body is failing him while his mind and wits are sharper than many people 20 years younger than him. He will endure a surgery next week and begins chemo therapy directly after. My first best friend is dying. The first person to trully love me is dying. I am broken again.
When my kitten ran away when I was 6...It was papa I cried on. When I fell off a swingset and broke my leg..it was Papa who carried me everyplace with my cast on. When anybody hurt my feelings or made me cry..it was Papa who stood up for me. When Mama would tell me not to say or act or do certain things because it wasn't lady like..Papa lovingly told her to shut the fuck up in Italian...When I needed food between school and ballet throughout highschool..it was papa who would pick me up at the studio and feed me. I can't imagine any other person showing up at my house with clementines and my favorite fresh bread from the bakery near his house for me. I will always think of him when I eat Russian Raisin bread from the Water Street bakeries. I cannot imagine life without this man. He was at every single first day of schooll...every single dance recital...every single time I fucked up and ended up in the hospital..Papa was there. When my father was too ashamed to love me, Papa did.
My grandfather turned 90 years old this month. He has lived through fighting a world war. He has lived to raise children. Grandchildren. Great grandchildren. And has watched countless others grow up and call him Papa even if they aren't actually his grandchildren. He has seen this city change and seen his friends raise their families and gone to most of his best friends wakes and funerals.
My Papa has cancer. We found out a few days ago. Although he pretends he is going to live another 90 years it is clear that body is failing him while his mind and wits are sharper than many people 20 years younger than him. He will endure a surgery next week and begins chemo therapy directly after. My first best friend is dying. The first person to trully love me is dying. I am broken again.