I popped one into my mouth and chewed as we crammed together next to the tree. There were too many of us to fit in one photo, and no matter how far out Dante stretched his arm with his phone, he couldn’t catch more than the tops of the children’s heads, and Roy and Julia looked decapitated, and all you could see of Blas was one shoulder.
Finally, a woman selling chestnuts offered to take a photo for us.
“Sorridete!” she said, meaningSmile!
I didn’t need her to tell me to. I hadn’t felt that happy in forever. I squeezed my father’s hand and pulled my grandmother in close.
“Un’altra,” our photographer said.
It was my first family photo. Because for me, every single personthere was my family. We were parts of a whole. Family isn’t blood; it’s a feeling, a warm emotion that wraps around you and keeps you feeling safe. It was perfect, but there was something missing. A hollow I couldn’t ignore. Keeping on without him was getting harder and harder every day.
“Are you all right?”
The question dragged me out of my thoughts. I looked up and saw my father with a worried expression on his face. I had lingered behind while everyone else walked away. I forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
He and I walked together, side by side.
“Maya, you know you can talk to me about anything, right?”
I nodded. “He’s not coming back, is he?” I asked. “I feel it, that he’s not coming back.”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s been weeks.”
His expression darkened. “Sometimes, the people who matter to us don’t show up in our lives to stay. They just pass through and teach us to grow up.”
“Growing up is horrible,” I hissed.
“I know,” he replied.
“So what do I do now?”
He winked and grabbed my hand. “When you don’t know what to do…” He pulled me into a pirouette and we both shouted, “Dance!”
We laughed. It was one of those small, ineffable things that are somehow bigger than anything you can touch. He sighed and hugged me again and guided me through the packed market.
“If it helps, I’ll stick around here forever,” Giulio said.
Trying hard to hold in all the emotions I felt, I responded, “Yeah, Dad. It helps.”
78
They say love is something living, and like every living thing, a time comes when it has to die. I took consolation in that. One day, I told myself, that feeling that was devouring me inside would be diluted into a mere memory, a scar, one that would lighten until one day it would hardly be visible. And then it would just be history.
I climbed the stairs slowly, lost in thought, the way I often was. The way we often need to. Because our feelings are only true if we allow ourselves to feel them, if we learn that they can hurt us but never kill us, even if we’re scared they might.
I slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open. Then I stopped. The lights were on. Everything around me seemed to melt as I asked myself what that meant: the strands of lights, the decorations, the garlands, the tinsel. Who had put all of it up?
I had an idea, but I shoved it aside. I couldn’t allow myself to feel that excitement. Because if I was disappointed, it might well destroy me.
I threw my purse down and walked around with fear. It smelled like plastic and something delicious coming from the kitchen. But there was another thing, too: soft, subtle, but an aroma I would recognize anywhere. An aroma that was entirely his and, at the same time, entirely mine.
I walked into the kitchen. On the counter were bags of food, in the oven some kind of puff pastry. I didn’t know what to think or what to feel. The possibilities were overwhelming.
I felt him behind me, tried to breathe, couldn’t.
And slowly, I turned. Very slowly. Almost clumsily. Uncertain. Scared. And so much more.
