njdonofrio

My grandmother passed away last September. My grandfather, the April before.

I don’t know if it ever really hit me. It was mostly shock and then numbness. They lived in Argentina, where my dad was born. It’s hard to remember most days, that they are no longer there.

They had a small cement house in Villa Madero in Buenos Aires. Lovingly built block by block by my grandfather, with the help of his family.

It was a sunny home. The little balcony had bright yellow Plexiglas squared in the railing. The cool patio with the red ceramic tiles, where the clothesline crisscrossed, and bright green plants grew out of a rainbow assortment of pots, some ceramic, some terra cotta, some cement with bits of glass and tile. All lovingly planted and cared for. The old couches and furniture worn and comforting. That old rotary telephone. Oh, that old rotary telephone! It was old. My grandfather had fixed it, splicing the faulty wire with a new one…that phone that almost electrocuted my dad. We brought them a new phone. It sat in the box. It wasn’t loud enough to hear…that old phone could be heard ringing from the street outside. It had so much character.

My grandparents lived a tough life. My grandmother, Fortunata, was a strong woman. Her smile would light up the room. Her hugs were plentiful. So warm and full of love. She was always cooking. Always caring, feeding, thinking, worrying. Cooking, knitting…She made me a warm wool sweater when I was younger…it was light green, and it had buttons shaped like ducks. I still have it somewhere as a memory. My grandfather, Giuseppe, was the sweetest man. He was so calm and loving. Taking me by the hand. He hummed to himself as he worked with his tools…constructing, building, figuring, fixing. Humming opera, curiously enough. He had an assortment of cassette tapes of various operas. I remember him whistling “Brindisi” from La Traviata. He would make flutes out of reeds. He would carve them, and decorate them, and give them to my sisters and myself. He had an ear for music.

They were both so full of love.

They were born in Sanza, Italy. The same town (coincidentally) that my mom’s family is from. It’s a small town in the mountains, in the Campania region of Italy. It’s in the province of Salerno. The buildings date back to medieval times. The population is less than 4,000 people. My grandparents had to leave Italy. There was no work to be had. They wanted to immigrate to America, but at the time (around the 50s) there were drastic restrictions in immigration to the US, so my grandparents left for Argentina.

The town was poverty-stricken at the time.  The people in our town were mostly farmers who worked the fields in the valley, and shepherds, who roamed the mountains.

The mountains are filled with wild lavender plants. My grandmother loved lavender. It was her favorite flower. She had a beautiful lavender plant in their garden. She would make sachets and perfumes from the lavender. In my mind, the flowers always reminded me of my grandparents in Argentina. The strong spicy-yet-sweet scent reminds me of them, perfectly reflecting their characters.

It had the same association to my dad. He planted lavender in our back yard in Brooklyn in their honor. It thrived. This winter, the plant suffered. Through this crummy cold spring, the lavender plant looked like a dead stump. It was a chilling reminder of my grandparents’ death.

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Today I was followed by lavender. I hadn’t realized its persistence until I stopped to consider the coincidences that became ever more obvious as the day progressed.

My cousin spread out lavender-colored tablecloths today. My aunt was wearing a lavender shirt, with a pair of earring with small lavender flowers. There were lavender colored flowers everywhere I looked.

I took a shower only to find that my shampoo was missing, and a new bottle of lavender scented shampoo in its place. That was the first thing that struck me. As I smelled the shampoo, I began to think about the flowers I saw, the color was everywhere. I thought of my grandparents.

I went out into our garden. I noticed our lavender plant was in full bloom. The few weeks of summer weather revived the plant. It has grown bigger and looks healthier than it did before the winter. The strong, spicy- yet-sweet smell of the bright purple blossoms filled the entire garden.

My grandmother, Pina, (my mom’s mom) returned from a trip to Sanza. This evening she came to visit us. She brought me sachets filled with wild lavender. I can smell the lavender now, while I type. It’s like a warm hug.