I’ve read that once matter is created, it cannot be destroyed.

If this is true, it is hard to understand why I am so heartbroken for the loss of my papa, my grandfather Pasquale. There seems to be no corporeal or perceptible evidence of him since we lost him in the evening hours on January 31st, 2025, though I have been searching. It is his absence that pains me the most - the idea that I cannot call, that if I imagined where he was right now, I would not be able to answer that question.

On location for work in three cities that week, I had spoken to him multiple times via a portal I purchased for him - with the easy touch of a button, I would find myself elated when he answered, seeing him seated comfortably on his brown velvet recliner, the television’s volume as high as it can go, the touch lamp that used to live at my parents’ house warming the whitewashed walls that were previously wood paneled.

We spoke often, mostly about the same things. It was rare that he understood a full sentence from me, but that had been par for the course for our exchanges since I was a child and knew how to dial their number: 415-454-1398.

When at my grandparents’ home, I would bother my mother at her work: 415-899-5280. I loved the clicks of my grandparents’ rotary phone in their downstairs bedroom, I loved the idea that I could reach anyone that I loved at any time. I loved that I knew they would always answer.

When at my own home, I would bother my grandparents. My grandma would answer like a luxury residence with a “M’yello?” and my papa would have a coarse, guttural “Hallo?” Fairly immediately, I would ask to put grandma on if my papa answered. He was always ruffled when I asked that, and I told him it was because he didn’t understand me, and I didn’t understand him.

I have had the honor of having my papa with me for 37 years, and honestly, I thought he was going to be with me for many more. He is resilient, he is a force. When we would talk about this potential day, we always spoke about it as a “God forbid something happens,” qualifying that perhaps he would never leave this earth.

And I believed it.

Our whole family came together to be with him. We took turns holding his hand, shuffling between rooms to see each other. The house was full again, full of the people that he created and that they created. It was exactly what he wanted, for us all to be together.

From where I sit now, I find that I actually very much understand my papa. We have this unimaginable bond between a 37 year old and a 98 year old.

I see so much of my own anger, my anxieties, my elations, my principles, and my drive in him; because of the matter that created him, he created me too.

My grandparents created my mom, whom I’ve come to realize has been the real connective tissue for this entire family. Growing up, we gathered at their home with everyone often, I was able to spend the afternoons with them every day until I was picked up by my mom as she was coming home from work, we moved closer to them to be near them. She has cared for my grandma, my papa, my sister and I, my dad, my uncle, and so many others so gracefully throughout my whole life. It is because of her that I’ve had such a close relationship to my grandparents, something that many people my age do not receive. And whether she has been told or not, my papa entrusts her with everyone because she cares and will not break a promise, and she has never let any of us down.

Time felt hurried, like sand falling through my fingers, yet languid, on January 31st, 2025.

I arrived as quickly as I could, flying from Bend, Oregon on an 8am flight, which was unfortunately delayed due to weather. I cried in my seat, stared at the one orange pole with a flag on it as it whipped in the wind.

Out of all of my flights that week, this was the 5th flight, and this was the only one to be delayed.

My grandparents’ home is my happy place. My mother grew up there. We spent almost every holiday there, gathering with my sister and two twin cousins who were born in the same week as I am. The house was full, always. A remnant of Italian households, you always had a place to go and eat every weekend if you wanted to.

For me, I was shuttled to and from school from that house in my papa’s small Toyota pickup truck. When I was much smaller, he would let me sit on his lap and help steer the truck into the driveway. I loved my responsibility of opening and closing the double iron wrought gates.

My happy place was transforming the moment I arrived - I knew that it would never be the same after this day, and potentially not ours in the coming months.

I wanted time to slow down, I wanted more time with my papa, I felt guilty for not being home that week (I often felt very guilty for being gone, but also the drive to go out into the world, see it like he did, find communities everywhere like he did).

I arrived to see him laboring for air, eyes closed in the fight. I wanted time to go faster for this version of him but I wanted to keep the papa I knew, the papa who chased me around the backyard, who built me a playhouse, who brought me to the library even though he cannot read or write, who kept old bread in the freezer and took me to feed the ducks, who grabbed John O’Meara by the sweatshirt after he pulled my pigtails one school day.

I wanted to sit in the tv room to watch the stock ticker, one more episode of the Three Stooges and witness his iconic laugh, to wander his manmade terraced garden and pick some ‘favi’ beans, to smell his Pasta Fazool simmering in the kitchen with the mustard yellow oven.

This house is happy.

This house is safe.

This house provides everything I have ever needed.

Once matter is created, it cannot be destroyed. Is a memory tangible enough?

image taken circa 2001

I will remember sticking to the leather recliners in the summer which still have the plastic on the footrest,

I will remember my papa’s stubbornness but unmoveable commitment to having family be all together.

I will remember his hot headedness, realizing they really were his moments of vulnerability.

I will remember his effortlessness in pruning trees and growing an entire farm’s worth of vegetables and fruits, things that have no business being grown in Marin County.

I will remember going to do his chores at United Market where he knew the butcher,

or Bordenave’s where he knew the breadmaker,

or eating a meal at his friend Mario’s restaurant on the red checkered tablecloths before it opened to the public.

I will remember his outlandish stories about his life, wondering how close he towed the line between fiction and reality, and ultimately, not caring.

I will remember his creativity and eagerness to do things his own way.

I will remember fights with my sister to pick where we wanted to sit in the truck, and how he somehow managed to handle it every time.

I will remember the radio always being set to KNBR68 to hear John Miller call the Giants game. I will remember that I never knew if he understood what the announcer was even talking about.

I will remember that he somehow knew how to play the piano, but was never taught.

I will remember throwing away his chewing tobacco every time I found it, and the verbal sparring we had about why I thought he should quit.

I will remember his daily 5-6 mile walks with our dog Sadie,

I will remember his bowling league days at Country Club Bowl and his famed bocce ball league where he won first place every year.

I will remember his loud, boisterous nature when my grandma only wanted quiet and silence. I will remember their duality and polarity.

I will remember how I thought he was the most magical guy I’ve ever met.

I will remember the first photo I ever took with a camera: an image of his weathered hand holding a newly bloomed flower.