by M.A. Dal Cero

Created on: November 20, 2010   Last Updated: December 03, 2010

My grandfather had lived in the United States only a few short years by the time I came into the world. An immigrant from Italy, his command of the English language was limited, yet he and I shared a special bond which seemed to transcend the need for us to speak the same language in order to communicate effectively.  Our close bond was born not only from the fact that I was his beloved granddaughter, but also from a tragedy that turned my family's world upside down; the death of my mother, my grandfather's youngest child and only daughter, shortly after I was born.

An avid gardener, my grandfather chose to deal with his grief  in the place where he felt most at peace, his garden.  There, among the rows of eggplant, zucchini, tomatoes, and bell peppers, he lovingly tended the soil and nurtured his plants, often speaking or singing to them in his native Italian, encouraging them to grow.  Although he was proud of the abundant crop his plants never failed to yield and graciously  shared bushels of vegetables with his friends and neighbors, his greatest source of pride was his flower garden, which was, for all intents and purposes, a memorial to my mother.  Filled with a variety of flowers such as daffodils, tulips, peonies, and most importantly, roses, my grandfather spent a great deal of time in that particular area of the garden, admiring its beauty and remembering his daughter.  On more than one occasion, I watched from the kitchen window as he walked among his rose bushes, stopping briefly to bend down and take in the sweet fragrance of one perfect rose.  Despite my young age, I could sense that the flowers he grew in her honor comforted him and provided an outlet for the grief that, at times, appeared to overwhelm him.

Being far too young to be trusted not to pluck an unripened vegetable or carelessly step on a bed of newly bloomed flowers, I was permitted only to admire the garden from a safe distance.  I recall asking my grandfather on numerous occasions to help him tend to his plants, but he would simply smile at me and reply in Italian, “Presto, presto.”  Although Italian was not my primary language, I knew he was saying, “Soon, soon”, and I eagerly, and rather impatiently, awaited the day when he would invite me to join him in the garden.              

After waiting for what seemed like an eternity to my young mind,

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