by Mary Elizabeth Grace
The room possessed the murky glow of a place that hadn’t been touched in some time. Large drapes covered the windows, the worn blue comforter was pressed neatly on the bed, and jewelry lay haphazardly on the vanity. A couple weeks had gone by since my grandmother’s passing, and her house was still packed with clothes and furniture that had stood in its place since she moved in almost 60 years prior. Her life was in this room and in this house and, unfortunately, it had fallen on us to dismantle it. A two-ton dumpster with the words “Jimmy the Junk Man” sat in the driveway, and a “for sale by owner sign” stood out on the front lawn.
I recall opening my grandmother’s closet, seeing all her clothes stashed together and feeling overwhelmed. What were we supposed to do with all of this? We couldn’t keep it all, but throwing it away felt like throwing her away. I remember searching through the overstuffed closet for a pink dress to bury her in, as per her request. A pink dress to match her pink coffin and pink gravestone, she was a lady even in death.
My grandmother, Nuno, as we called her, a butchered version of the Italian “Nonna,” loved clothes. She loved fashion. She would sew me all sorts of hats, scarves and gloves, and give them to me as Christmas and birthday presents. Things I would only wear when she was around. In her younger years, she worked as a seamstress. She told stories about the hard work and the scarce pay, but she never seemed to regret any of it. “I go on,” she would say. She loved sewing and, even if it didn’t make her rich, she found satisfaction in it. She sewed long after she no longer needed to work, up until her eyes stopped functioning. Even then, she didn’t let her ailments stop her from living life.
Nuno knew how to have fun. In her 80s she had a long-term boyfriend, Ed, whom she would do everything with. Ed, despite being in his 90s, still drove, and when my grandmother’s eyes failed her, he started taking her everywhere from doctors’ appointments to the grocery store. They didn’t just run errands though, they also “went out.” Every day, they would visit different senior centers throughout Bergen County and play cards, take dance classes and make new friends. My uncle once said my grandmother could have more fun with a $5 bill than most people could have with $100. Despite the setbacks life threw at her, she never let it break her spirit.
My grandmother was the daughter of immigrants, and really, was also one herself. She arrived on Ellis Island from Sicily in March of 1935, and, at the mere age of three, started a new life. I remember visiting Ellis Island in my youth, seeing her name etched in stone on the wall, and thinking my Nuno was the coolest person in the world. She and her parents and three siblings lived in a small apartment in Washington Heights, where the kids all slept on a pullout couch. Whenever she spoke about those days, it was never with disdain, she always made it sound like it was an adventure. “I go on,” she would say.
Eventually, she met my grandfather, they saved up some money and were able to move across the river to New Jersey, and break ground on a brand-new house in Bergenfield. I loved my Nuno’s house. There were always plants sprouting from the bay window that looked right out on the front lawn. She kept her furniture covered in plastic and when I was young I would giggle and wiggle my butt on the seat cushions. The walls were covered with art and everything she owned was beautiful. It made sense, looking back, that she never got rid of anything, she was proud of all that she owned.
Nuno’s life in Bergenfield still came with its struggles. Several years after she and my grandfather bought the house, they were divorced, and she, still working her full-time job as a seamstress, found herself raising four daughters largely by herself. I never heard her complain about this time in her life, and she didn’t let it stop her from living. “I go on,” she would say. She still managed to travel and had an active social life. In my favorite picture of hers, she is riding on the back of a camel in Morocco. While visiting Spain with some friends, they were offered the opportunity to take a ferry across the Mediterranean for a day. The friends she had come with were too hesitant, but Nuno sure wasn’t. She made the voyage alone and befriended some of the other tourists in the group while she was there. She talked about that trip often and reminisced that it was one of the most fun times she had in her life.
About 12 years back, Nuno had open heart surgery. I was 16 and it was my first encounter with a relative going through a major procedure. The doctors couldn’t guarantee she would survive the surgery, but if she did, they told us it could extend her life significantly. Following her procedure was the first time I visited a rehabilitation center, it was Mother’s Day and my parents, aunt, uncle and cousin wanted to spend the day with her. She looked so frail, rolling around in her wheelchair, but she never gave up hope. “I just can’t wait to go home,” she told us, and eventually, she did.
That surgery, although a lengthy process that required her going in and out of multiple rehabilitation facilities, gave us another eight years with her, and I truly cherish that time. As she aged, she still carried herself with the same glow and enthusiasm she had in her younger years. I always admired that about her, that despite everything she had been burdened with, she never stopped enjoying life. “I go on,” she would tell herself, and she did. To this day, I strive to be more like her in that sense. Life will knock you down, but what’s really important is whether or not you can get back up.
Even up until the very end, she was still going to the senior center with Ed. When things started to go downhill and I would visit her in the hospital, she would tell me stories about activities they had done the prior week, or reminisce about the few times she returned to Sicily. She would always say how much she was looking forward to going back home. To that little house on the cul-de-sac in Bergenfield, where she had built her American dream. Even after her eyes gave out, she still lived in that house she had built all those years ago, knew exactly where everything was and kept everything in its place so she could easily get around. It was only the last two weeks that she had to stay in a facility. I think, by then, we all anticipated that the end was near.
We don’t get to keep our loved ones forever. This is a lesson I have learned many times. However, what we do get to keep are their memories and the stories they share with us. The attitudes they had towards life and the way they handled themselves through hardship. My grandmother may not be here in the physical sense anymore, but anytime I reach a rough patch in my life, I think of her. “I go on,” I say to myself, and I know she’s there.
About the Author:
Mary Elizabeth Grace is a writer from New Jersey. She has loved writing since childhood and recalls early days of drafting picture books on her father’s computer. She has a B.A. in Literature and Creative Writing from Ramapo College of New Jersey. She enjoys writing personal essays, short stories, and is working on a novel. Her work has appeared in Humans of the World and NRHC’s Illuminate. Instagram & Twitter (X): @marylizgrace