what do we pray for?

candles, churches, and you

I’ve been going to churches often. I’ve probably seen more churches in the past 4 days than I have in over 12 years. I will light a candle for my mom. I never know which row of candles to choose, so I choose the one that’s at the end of the middle row. She never liked being the centre of attention, and, because of that, she always was. She wouldn’t want me to light one on the highest shelf. So, I decide the candle at the end of the middle row is perfect for her. She can watch as the shaky hands light a small flame in remembrance to one of the greatest loves of their lives. 

Can I tell you something? I don’t think of my Nonno as often as I believe I think I should. Would that make me a bad granddaughter? I was 17 when he passed away, and he was sick for a long time. Lung cancer. My mom would tell me it was because he started smoking when he was 13. I remember the basement bathroom always being filled with the scent of his aftershave and the remnants of cigarettes. 

I was always a bit scared of him. He rarely spoke, but when he did, he would express this prolific one liner that would take someone else years to come with. He also rarely smiled, so getting a laugh out of him was like winning an internal lottery. The seat at the head of the table was reserved for him. The white plastic chair on the porch outside was also reserved for him. 

Truth be told, I spent a lot of my childhood wondering if he liked me or not. I’d see him get annoyed at my cousins, but never at me. I attribute this to me always wanting to play alone, and always eating the most slices of his pizza. I was raised to be quiet, gracious, and kind - and I think the only words I remember speaking to him were, “Thank you, Nonno.”

But now, whenever I see a nonno smoking outside of a bar, the soccer game playing in the background, old tattoos and wrinkles lined up to his ears - I think of mine. And I wonder if they’d be friends. I’d wonder what they’d talk about. I wonder if he would have gotten tattoos if he stayed in Italy longer. And I wonder if he’d be proud to introduce me to them as his granddaughter. 

My nana raised me - did I ever tell you that? My mom would always joke that we got stuck with the one Italian grandmother who refused to cook. She also never learned how to drive, so you can see where I’ve picked up a lot of my habits. 

“Did you ask Nana about her Italian boyfriends?” My mom would ask. Those were always our favorite stories to listen to. 

“My aunt always had to chase away the boys who waited for me at my door, or the boys at the beach.” Whenever she started telling the story of how her and my Nonno met, it always began with: “Well, you know your Nana. Everyone in my town was in love with me.” 

My Nana is, in fact, very beautiful. She has these soft hazel eyes and light hair. The brightest smile and the most radiant skin. “Ivory soap and water” has always been her secret.

I never wondered if my nana loved me. She wears her heart on her sleeve, and she would tell me she loved me often.

I am like her, in many ways. 

I wonder about their relationship. How would my nonno tell her he loved her? How would he show it? 

I feel silly kneeling at church. So, after I light a candle, I sit in the back row and wonder what I should pray for, if anything. More time, I am reminded. The most important thing in the world. 

But really, I just want to tell the ones I lost that I miss them.

-

I walk into his bar with a friend on an early Thursday evening. Our eyes meet, a smile appears across his often solemn face, and he lets out a surprised “oh!” 

Isn’t it strange when someone who never smiles, does? That reward. But the shyness and sincerity throw me, and remind me of the many times our glasses, full of whatever alcohol was available, would meet and I would immediately take my eyes away from his.

“You’re supposed to keep eye contact, and then touch the glass to the table”, a stranger next to me told us once. I pretend not to hear him.

The summer heat brings out the worst in people, I’ve learned. 

I smile, place my purse on top of the bar, let out a quiet “hi”, and look away as I have done many times before. 

There are so many things that I want to say. And there are so many things that I can’t bring myself to. 

In those moments in between, I am reminded of a last conversation:

“You should have told me you were leaving. We could have arranged for a goodbye.” 

“I don’t think there’s a point. I’ve said everything that I needed to say to you.”

And in those moments in between, I tell myself that maybe it’s easier to pretend nothing ever happened. 

Sensing my energy, he begins to speak to me in Italian, a language he knows I still do not understand. 

We stare at each other blankly. My friend spills her glass of prosecco. 

In the heat of the summer, I once told him that I can’t ever express how I feel verbally. But I can write it. 

He looked at me and nodded as if he finally got the answer he was praying for. 

-

How do we love, why do we love, and where does it all go? 

Sitting on those church steps, I am scared to ask for what I really want and for what I really need. Because when I get it, I don’t know if I will feel better or worse.

Please, do you love me? And please, will you set me free?

Is all I can think of to ask.