“Slow your hands, Tesorino. Just like life, embroidery is one thing you cannot rush.”
“I just want to be perfect.”
“Oh, but you already are. You already are perfect, to me.”
I shake my head as muffled grief rests on my heart.
Papa pats my leg. “You are the great joy of my life, Gio, and your mamma is the great love of my life. I have everything I need with the two of you. And I’m so happy you foundyourlove. Tessa is wonderful.”
I swallow hard, the happiness in his eyes almost too much to bear.
Papa clears his throat. “We’ve talked about your nonno a lot throughout the years, you and I. You had such a specialrelationship with him. But, for a moment, I’d love to talk to you about your nonna.”
I tilt my head. I can tell by his responding hum that a story is sitting on the tip of his tongue. Papa rarely talks about his mamma. She passed away when he was a boy, maybe ten years old. And when Nonno died, he took her stories with him.
That’s the thing about memories. The details can’t survive if their caretaker’s gone, too.
“If I could describe your nonna in one word, it’d behonest. She’d make her opinions known, even if they were unpopular. Whether it was an awful haircut or a bad recipe, she’d tell you. She used to say that ‘Jesus wouldn’t have gone through all the trouble of telling us not to lie if He didn’t mean it. I’m just living like Him.’”
We both chuckle.
“Where your nonno was gentle, your nonna was tough. She loved to give your nonno a hard time, and I think he loved it, too.” He pauses. “Tessa reminds me of your nonna in that regard. Tough. I was speaking with her in the garden last night, and?—”
I interrupt him. “Did she say anything? About me?”
My tone does not sound like someone asking after his girlfriend of three years, but the promise of knowing Tessa’s state of mind is too tempting to bury every curiosity.
Papa smiles. “She did.”
“And?”
He shakes his head.
“Papa.”
“Tesoro.”
“A hint? I just want to know…” I trail off, not wanting to be too obvious about the complexities of my relationship with her.
Papa squeezes the back of my neck. “As I was saying, Tessa is tough like your nonna, but she’s hesitant when it comes to honesty.”
“What are you saying?”
“She’s standing on the edge of something. Afraid that if she falls, no one will catch her.” He smiles. “Show her you will. Have courage.”
I sigh. “Courage is intimidating.”
“Sometimes courage is simply speakingfirst. Let it be you.”
As he gets up and heads for the door, I have one last question. “Did you ever feel like there wastoomuchof a past to overcome with Mamma?”
“Threads will always fray. It’s about how you mend them.” Papa hums. “Mamma and I are off to church, then lunch. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Papa.”
The relationship I have with him is so strong, so deep, that it’s hard to remember that paternal love isn’t universal. When Tessa admitted that she rarely sees her father because of the distance between them, my heart pulled. I’ve never experienced anything other than loyalty and love from Papa.
Mend them. Just like Papa, I’m a fixer at heart. I know what it’s like to have distance between me and my loved ones—there’s an entire ocean between my family and me. I make a silent resolution to help Tessa rebuild her relationship with her dad. I want that for her.
