“Look at all those bananas. Who’s going to eat all those bananas?” asked Michael Zapazzi.
“Oh, they’ll get eaten,” said his 82-year-old mother, Anna, glancing over at the bunch lying on the kitchen counter. The two of them sat at the cozy kitchen table they’d shared so often with Michael’s father, Mike, Sr. Now instead of eating a meal together with his father and her husband, they sat with her other son, Kenneth, cousin Clem and Clem’s wife, Sandy.
Sandy had brought over an offering of condolences in the form of food, a usual Zapazzi Italian tradition, a mega-platter of biscotti. By the looks and size of Clem, he’d been the beneficiary of plenty of condolence platters, but, was no worse for the wear. With a passion for living life to it’s fullest and cherishing each and every moment, he asked Anna, “Remember that time when yoose were over at our place and you kept laughing at Spot ‘cause he was sitting upright in a chair falling asleep? You’d never seen a dog sleeping like that before.”
Remembering it like it was only yesterday instead of 30 years ago, Anna said, “Yeh, and he didn’t like it when I kept laughing at him.”
Imitating the dog, Sandy turned around backwards in her chair and swung her head around to face the group, saying, “Spot turned his back to yoose when you kept laughing and then he’d look over his shoulder back at you giving you the glare like this, remember?”
They all laughed for a moment, then took a deep breath and sighed into silence. The silence was a pause that was deafening on this, the day after Anna’s husband had died.
“Anna, I love you,” he cried out while looking into her eyes just moments before he took his last breath. It had taken every last ounce of courage and strength to utter those words of passion to his wife of 60 years.
“It’s supposed to blizzard starting later this afternoon,” said Clem.
“I know,” said Anna, “Mike knew just how much I hated the cold. At least he could have waited until Spring when it was warmer to check out.”
The comment was so unexpected, nobody really knew at first whether to laugh or cry.
“Did we ever tell yoose about the time we made homemade ghnocci together?” asked Clem.
The common love and comfort of food was a recurring source of material for the Zapazzis, especially during this tragic time of mourning. As each of them dipped their biscotti into their coffee cups, it was as if they were drowning their sorrows with each dunking. Mike would have been so pleased at their ritual, being a true believer in the powers of Italian traditions.
“You should see Luke eat his rigatoni,” said Michael.
Mike, Sr.’s great-grandson was only 4-years-old but, had probably already consumed enough butter to feed a small country. Luke’s rigatoni was always served bare-naked swimming in a half-inch deep pool of melted butter. The boy had been the apple of Mike Sr.’s eye.
“Don’t pick the cucumbers if they’re too little,” he’d tell the boy as they’d walk through Mike Sr.’s carefully tended backyard garden.
It came as no big surprise when Luke tucked a packet of cucumber seeds and another of pepper seeds in his great-grandpop’s casket with a note written for him by his mother. It read, “These seeds are for you to continue our tradition in heaven, pop-pop. Mommy and I are going to continue it here too, planting our own cucumbers and peppers at home. I love you, pop-pop.”
In her own tender loving gesture, Anna kept fussing with and straightening out the sleeves of her husband’s suit coat, over and over and over again, as he lie perfectly-coiffed in a brushed copper casket. If he could have, he probably would have sat straight up in the coffin, opened his eyes and said, “What’s all the fuss about?”
“He hasn’t looked that good in years,” said his son aloud, spurring on laughter from the rest of the family gathered around the body of Mike, Sr.
As the Zapazzi’s mourn Mike Sr.’s passing, the memory of his selfless nature lives on and will continue to thrive and grow through the legacy of his offspring. And while he won’t physically be there any longer for the daily human rituals like toasting the morning bread, brewing pots of coffee and taking out the garbage, if he could, he’d polish off those bananas lying on the kitchen counter before they went bad, even if he wasn’t hungry. And while they may turn brown on the outside and mushy on the inside, the memories of a man loved by all who met him, will no doubt stay firm and live on forever.