Andrea Masciari

My heart swells with blissful anticipation as I welcome spring each year, red-breasted robins feasting on worms and early morning birds chirping in the quiet distance.  Happy days of drenching rains nourishing all that is life and all that brings joy to the world.  I eagerly wait for another Palm Sunday, a most festive day for my family and me as we celebrate the memories of so many loved ones who have died and left us to remember their lives of grace and integrity and so much soulfulness.

My father woke us early to attend Mass at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross in Boston’s South End.  I remember the long procession of parishioners as we slowly made our way through the colossal church while Cardinal Cushing spoke those odd Latin words that all of us, somehow, understood.  This Catholic tradition is still deeply ingrained in our Palm Sundays, except that now we are without Uncle Joe, as he accompanied us each year and guided us all through the deepest memories of his long life. I never thought he would die. I always believed his love for me would keep him alive forever. And when I kissed him goodbye, his icy cheek wasn’t real anymore. His lifeless body, gone perhaps, but his generous spirit lives eternally within those of us lucky enough to have been connected to him.

Most are gone now, those loving men and women who had no idea how enriched my childhood was because of their presence in it.  Uncles and aunts, cousins, grandparents and the friends we visit on this yearly pilgrimage to too many cemeteries – our connection to the huge void their deaths have caused in our lives.  But on this day, the void is filled with the kind of warm embrace that can only come from the profound depths of a kindred spirit that binds families and friends, even in this tumultuous world of ours.  The void bursts with happy memories of Uncle Johnnie’s awful-smelling Stogies, the compassionate voices of Uncle Tom and Uncle Frankie; the wisdom of Uncle Carl, and Uncle Bob’s outlandish enthusiasm for all that fate delivered to his door.  My eyes still light up when I recall the docile kindness of Auntie Mary, and Aunt Nanna’s hearty laugh, as they greeted us at the doors of their homes a few short years ago.  Now they greet us at their graves, surrounded by an ever-growing entourage of nephews, and nieces and my Dad, one of the few living siblings; all coming back, year after year, to remember them to each other in a ritual of jokes and the same funny stories over and over again.

Grandpa walked to Boston from Detroit with a hurdy-gurdy man and a monkey on a leash.  No one knows how or why – just that he was a wanderer before he settled down and raised thirteen children.  Uncle Eddie pinched my small cheeks so hard each time he saw me that I still feel the sting of his grasp on my delicate skin – but the sight of me brought such happiness to him that I just held my breath and smiled my best smile.  And Uncle Vinnie, the most handsome of them all; like a prince whenever he walked into our house and kissed my forehead like only a grand uncle ever could.

And I miss Norma, so gentle and beautiful when she died in childbirth, and Bobby who succumbed to the ravages of a cancer that sometimes takes the lives of young and talented photographers.  There are many others, all gone at the hands of diseases and accidents and so sadly, by the stark finality of suicide.  I wish I could touch them all, one by one, and pronounce my deep and lasting love for each of them.  But, alas, I cannot, and so I gather my brothers, my cousins, and my father and head off to fill that deepening void with an early-morning graveyard toast of Uncle Joe’s homemade Anisette.  We pour some of his potion over his grave, along with one of his favorite Bavarian cream donuts, and we meander our way through cemetery after cemetery until the void is finally filled again, with each other, living, laughing, and remembering.

I am the driver behind whom you would rather not be driving. Not because I weave in and out of traffic or because I stop and go erratically, but because I obey speed limits, mostly, and I yield to pedestrians who are standing in the street as I approach from far away, allowing them to maneuver their children across so many busy roadways. Heck, I stopped on Route 62 to allow an ancient turtle to leisurely saunter to the other side. Then everyone stopped for the turtle. I guess no one wants to be seen as a turtle killer.

But someone did kill my uncle while he was crossing his street to go home after a hard day’s work. He survived for a week with a metal rod protruding from his head in a futile attempt to alleviate the blood pressure imploding in his brain. When I saw him in his hospital bed the morning after the accident, his eyes projected a look of fear and shock that I will not soon forget. Sort of like the face of a child when he gets caught in an act of mischief. Then he silently closed his eyes and held my hand with all his might. I could not believe that a careless SUV was going to end the life of a man whose presence at any gathering was truly a joy. If anyone was ever the life of the party, Uncle Bob was the guy. Suffice it to say that if you didn’t know him, you missed an opportunity to laugh your heartiest laugh or to feel the rumble of your deepest anger. Uncle Bob affected everyone.

One dreary morning I stood at the end of the sidewalk of a busy Belmont street, a child in each hand and a backpack on each shoulder. As we stepped off the curb into the faded crosswalk, Mr. Cool saw us from afar, sitting upon the pedestal of his gleaming SUV. Donning sunglasses on this drizzly morning, he stepped on the gas and nearly killed all three of us. I had just enough time to mouth the best four-letter word I know, right in his face. Silently, of course, saving my sons from their mother’s vulgarity.

More recently, traffic was crawling in front of a Boston museum. A school bus made several futile attempts to exit the driveway and merge into the traffic. So I waved the driver out, and three people behind me beeped their car horns and flailed their arms. The anger on the woman’s face behind me was so intense that I could do nothing but smile at her. She probably didn’t appreciate that as she sped past me on Storrow Drive. We met up at the next traffic back up. I smiled again and turned away to notice the ducks waltzing across the glistening Charles River.

My uncle’s tragic death taught some great lessons, not the least of which is that I no longer walk out in front of cars and trucks and buses that are gaining on me. It used to seem reasonable to assume they would not strike pedestrians, but now I know they speed up to see who can reach the middle of the road faster, and I am not playing anymore. Maybe the drivers will this game, but at least I can avoid the metal rod in my head and the premature eulogy read by someone who loves me. And unlike the turtle ignoring the speeding traffic on Route 62, I will keep my family and my friends in mind while I stand at the crosswalk and wait for the traffic to whiz by.