Everyday, people go through life’s motions. Neighborhood aunties at the grocery pluck oranges from the shelves, their strollers blocking aisles. Students’ backpacks fuse to their bodies during the day, and they stoop from phantom weight at night. People swim when the waves try to push them below until they reach shore.
All this life around me, and I sit here tip-tapping my foot against the floor, staring at words on a letter that say UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN, and We are pleased to accept Ryan Amato. I slide the letter into the smooth lining of my pillowcase and walk away.
It’s not that I don’t want to attend Michigan. It’s my dream school, but there isn’t enough luck in the world. I can’t go. Not when the paychecks I’ve been saving come short of tuition, not when chances of getting a scholarship that large are miniscule, not when I’ve got a brother and dad at home who need my help. It’s torturous, watching the goal I chased fade from view, like a birthday balloon floating farther up in the sky, a dot against the blue. Sometimes no matter how hard you work, you fail.

…

Every Saturday, I head over to Nonna’s for dinner. Nonna lives at The Sunset Place, a senior home named for the lazy orange rug in the lobby and the hundred degree thermostat. Before Mama was gone, we visited Nonna almost everyday. She wanted me to learn about the family and the woman who was a reflection of myself. Nonna and I have the same scrunched brow and star-like freckles; the same disobedient hair and downturned mouth. It often seemed as though my body was not my own, and that I was just a reincarnation of my grandmother’s youth.
The air here is stagnant and seems to hold its breath until the only noises come from a ticking clock and a bingo room down the hall. I check in, walk towards Nonna’s room, and twist the doorknob, whose flaking gold paint clings to my palm.
“Knock, knock, Nonna,” I called to the empty living room.
“Kitchen!” Nonna says, her head popping out from the little kitchen in her apartment.
We plop down on the couch with grilled cheese and I turn on reruns of Seinfeld. Eventually, Nonna’s head tilts back and she’s snoring lightly. Her wrinkles fade and she looks young again. She’s never this relaxed when she’s awake. Dad says it’s because of all the fighting she did.
I turn back to the television, and watch the fuzzy screen.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Sounds explode from the television and it cuts straight through Nonna because her eyes fly open and she dives behind the coffee table. I rush to her, and my heart rate jumps at a small cut on her skin. But the nick on her forehead isn’t the biggest problem — Nonna’s eyes are dilated, skin drenched in cold sweat, and her breathing is heavy. I reach toward the panic button, but she grasps my wrist firmly as her breathing regains control.
“Ryan, I’m okay,” she says, the confusion fading from her eyes.
“What was that?” My voice trembles, and I reach out to help her stand.
“Memories,” she sighs, and I know she’s talking about the war.
“Do you ever regret enlisting?”
“No. People said that women didn’t serve in the Vietnam War. I say that’s crap. I toured in ‘Nam starting ‘65 because your grandfather enlisted and there was no way in hell I was staying home without him. I had no idea what I was getting into. Fresh out of nursing school, no women became doctors or surgeons, but in ‘Nam there weren’t enough of us to go around. I did amputations everyday, then came home to discover no one even knew about the women over there. Didn’t acknowledge me as a veteran. I couldn’t get a normal job anywhere, just shacked up with a few other gals that I knew on tour as a combat nurse until Niccólo came home. Vets all over were screaming to stop the war, but it took many more lives until Nixon finally pulled us out of that place.”
“Then things started happening. I couldn’t stand large gatherings, and my parents disowned me for enlisting. Eventually, I heard about the veteran’s support groups, but even they wouldn’t let me in. Said I wasn’t a true veteran. Those damn men whose lives we saved wouldn’t allow us to heal. Our voices were silenced, and people refused to believe that women served in the army, saving their soldiers and facing danger daily. It was lonely, especially after Niccólo died, and no one understood what I was going through except the other women in Vietnam. I was one of the lucky ones too. A lot of my friends weren’t able to have kids. Deb lost three in the womb. It was the agent orange that the government used.” Tears slip out of Nonna’s eyes, scorching her cheeks. I feel my chest implode as she speaks. I have never seen Nonna this vulnerable before. I hold my arms out, pull her to me, and she rests her head against mine. Hearing this, no wonder her smile never reaches the corners of her eyes.
Her tears slow, and I know that they were not only from sadness, but also rage — rage that her bravery was never acknowledged, rage that the world ignored the women who saved lives, but praised men who took them.
When I finally speak, my voice is quiet like a snail peering out of its shell.
“I’m so sorry.”
Nonna just wraps her arms around me in response. She did not say ‘it’s ok’ because it was not okay. But, as she hugged me, I felt abundant life in her frail bones and her love — for me, and for this country, even though it let her down.

…

For weeks, I stare at the acceptance letter before tucking it back into my pillowcase. Every Saturday, Nonna would reveal something new about herself when I visited. I hoarded her memories like a dragon hoards its treasure. I saw Nonna as a whole person; as Gina Amato. Not just as my nonna, but as a compilation of years of life and evolution. She told me about the woman she had been, the woman she became, and the people who helped her there.
…Deb was the comedian, she made us grin and bear it even when we wanted to collapse. She’s happily married now. Her and her wife tied the knot as soon as it was made legal. It was a different time back then…
…Now, Barb, she was as sharp as her name; harder than diamonds and stronger than whiskey. There were days where we’d go out to the bar there and she would sing, and we would dance. Damn, she had vocals. Then, we’d go to sleep and hell would start all over again…
…Those boys I couldn’t save, I’ll never forget their faces…
…Once, we went into a village to help the people. Everyone was paranoid ‘cause the Charlies could be anywhere, but all I remember was wondering if the village’s damage was from our side or theirs—the blood too. That and the mud coated me to my elbows…
When we finished talking, Nonna and I would sip hot cider, although today our eyelids drift shut from exhaustion, lashes resting on our tear-stained cheeks, mourning lives lost.
After helping Nonna to her room, I head out to the parking lot where Dad is waiting in the car. I buckle my seatbelt and listen to the persistent sound of rain on the metal roof.
“Have you gotten any responses from colleges yet, Ryan?” Dad asks.
“Not yet. There are a lot of applications to go through, so I heard there were tons of delays,” I reply smoothly. I’m sure my nose grew a couple of inches.
“Are you sure?” Dad asks, taking one hand off the wheel to pick up a pristine white envelope — my acceptance letter. “Ryan, you have some explaining to do. I was doing laundry and sheets, and this fell from the pillowcase.” His face softened from anger to hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I can’t go. The cost for dorms alone…”
“We’ll make it work.”
“But—”
“No buts, we’ll figure something out. There are scholarship opportunities for smart kids like you.” The rest of the ride home was silent. There was nothing holding me back from college now, so why did it still feel like an anchor was strapped to my back?

…

No one spoke at dinner. The only sound was Dad’s grunt when Baby Luca tossed his spaghetti-o’s on the ground. I wanted to say something, but the words got jammed in the back of my throat when I tried to speak. Blood beatin my ears and for a second the world got blurry. I took a couple deep breaths.
“Dad, I—” The phone started ringing. He put one finger up in a hold on a sec gesture, so I shut my mouth again. The shrill ringing continued as my Dad rose to answer the call.
“What?…” Dad murmured, his voice cracking. My ears strained toward him.
“I’m so sorry… Gina Amato, your grandmother… she passed,” the man on the other side of the phone says.
I can count the number of times I’ve seen my father cry on one hand. All of them were after my mother passed. Now, he grips the table, so he doesn’t fall to the floor. Fat tears are spilling down his face as Poseiden sends seas of grief flooding his body. Baby Luca is crying from the other room, sensing something wrong.
I grab Dad’s hand and lead him to the couch to sit down. All the way I think, Nonna is dead, Nonna is dead, Nonna is dead.
When I make it back to my room, I close the door
and
fall
to
my
knees.
My heart shudders like a broken down car, and I sob, afraid that I will forget her. That all the memories — the way Nonna’s left eyebrow would flick upward when she joked, how she prayed by my side, her ritual glass of red wine at dinner, how every year on my grandparents anniversary she would walk in the park where he proposed — would disappear, like her love, her existence, was an illusion.
The next day, casseroles upon casseroles fill up our refrigerator. The leftover grilled cheese I took home from Nonna’s was thrown out to make more space. I throw myself onto my bed, and though I lie there, I don’t go to sleep for a long time.

…

Grief is a tsunami, and I’m trying to out paddle it in a toy sized kayak. I row until my arms are numb, but the water pulls me up the giant wave until it crashes over me. Tumbling through the water, I choke on the sinister seafoam. Only then do I remember: I can’t swim.
I kick my legs, trying to push upward toward the surface, desperate for air.
There comes a point where I stop fighting, where I wonder if it really will be so horrible just to stop. I don’t want it anymore; I just want to sleep peacefully.
Eventually, I wake up, and the ocean dissolves from my dreams. But the waking nightmare, that Nonna is gone, is much worse. I want to feel the comfort of the chilling waters again.
There’s a tradition to cover all the mirrors in a house when someone dies, so that their soul cannot be captured in the reflection, allowing them to pass safely into heaven. I cover all the mirrors in the house, but leave my little pocket mirror selfishly uncovered from the black fabric, hoping to keep any part of Nonna that’s left.

…

The funeral is simple, and everyone is dressed in their Sunday best. I shake hands and listen to stories, “I’m sorry for your loss” playing over and over and over again like a broken tape.
An elderly woman in a black jumpsuit approaches me, leaving the empty table she’s been sitting at most of the night.
“I’m Barb,” she explains. “Your grandma told me so much about you.” I couldn’t speak. My throat was clammed up and my eyes flooded all over again, but I stuck out my hand.
“Nice to meet you,” I said as she shook it.

…

I’ve had the nightmare again. The one where I’m drowning. Everytime I close my eyes, the water swallows me whole, the darkness creeping in like spiders, their legs scuttling closer and closer still.
When I awake, I groan into my pillow, trying to stifle my fury. Right when I was starting to learn more about Nonna, she left. I picture Nonna living in a palace in heaven, looking down from a glass bottom sky onto the world forever more.
I emerge from my room, taking one tentative footstep after another until I reach the kitchen, where Dad feeds Luca, the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes looking like blackholes. I pour myself a cup of coffee and return to my room.
I crawl back to bed and clutch my pillow against my chest. The acceptance letter crinkles against me through the pillowcase, where I returned it after the argument with Dad. It flutters onto the bed, rocking back and forth before it lands. I want that life so terribly bad, and yet I’m so afraid.
Even when things were difficult with family, Nonna signed up for war. Even when people told her she couldn’t fight, she did. Even when she struggled to heal, she persevered. This time, when I go to sleep, I don’t dream of drowning.

…

When I wake up, the sunshine seeps under my eyelids like honey and buzzes in my ears. I feel powerful—I know what Nonna would want me to do. Light floods my eyes, wind fills my lungs, and my limbs are crafted from solid oak and flesh. When I step, dirt spills from my feet and flowers bloom in my wake. After drifting through the world for weeks, I’m alive again. My heart is leaden with emotion, but it’s not an anchor dragging me down, but an aegean sky — open with new possibilities. Perhaps I cannot swim in the oceans of grief, so instead I stand, and realize that the water isn’t as deep as it seems. In my dreamscape, I grip the hands of the people next to me, and step forward, one-by-one, until we reach the sandy shore.
Now, I reach into my pillowcase, decorated with smears of mascara, and pull out the acceptance letter. I cradle it in my hands like a porcelain cup and walk to the living room where Dad sits. He turns towards me.
“I want to go,” I say. “I’m accepting.” Then I’m sheltered in his hug, Baby Luca in one arm, the other around my shoulders, and I smile.