by Leslie Pike
Who knew Jenny and I’d be the ones to have five? The first time I held my first son in my arms I cried. I laugh now a little with the thought. Our two oldest boys are coming later, but James, Audrey and Samanthe are here already to celebrate their grandparents’ 70th anniversary.
I watch them, sitting under an umbrella laughing and talking. It still throws me to see Audrey’s pregnant belly. When I was young, the idea of being a father never entered my mind, let alone a grandfather.
Now we’re coming up on our twenty-fourth anniversary. Jenny’s still beautiful at forty-nine, and we feel the same way we felt back then. Lovers forever. I remember thinking thirty would be the end of fun. How wrong I was. It was just the beginning.
A hand rests on my shoulder.
“Honey, I need your help. Can you take your dad to his chair outside?”
Turning to face her, she gets a kiss on the lips before I answer. “Sure. We ready to eat?”
“Almost. Foods about to be put on the table. I’m gonna pour the drinks now,” she says holding up the bottle of wine. “Go. He’s in the kitchen with your mother.”
She walks through the open doors and I head for the kitchen.
It’s buzzing with the cooks and their helpers. Dion, Alexander, Joseph, Robert and Lana stand making last-minute preparations. It strikes me that they’re all right around the age my parents were when I met Jenny. You blink and it’s twenty-five years later.
To the right I see my parents. Sophia at her breakfast table, and Valentino in his wheelchair across from her.
“Nikos! Grab me a cloth napkin,” she calls.
The voice is weaker, the hair still long but silver, and her eyes a little clouded. But Sophia Santini is beautiful to us. Beneath the ninety-three-year-old shell lives a still sharp woman. A few of us have remarked she’s sharper than we are.
But it’s my father who pulls the heartstrings. Age is hard on everybody, but he falls from a greater height. The once strong bull of a man who sang loud and powerfully at the drop of a hat is fading.
We’ve tried to deny it, especially to my mother who doesn’t need anybody to tell her what she knows best. Wheelchair-bound for the last six months and thinner by the day, his age is finally having the last word.
Not a day goes by that he doesn’t have visitors. His children or grandchildren, even his great-grandchildren who don’t understand just how different he was as a young man. They only know Papa, the old man who gives them candy bars and cookies from his deep sweater pockets.
I bring my mother the napkin and she reaches across and wipes her husband’s mouth, where crumbs of his last bite lingered. A little wink from him is his thanks.
“Ready to go outside, Dad?”
He looks to my mother for I’m not sure what. Approval? Permission? Confirmation that she’s coming too? All of the above maybe.
“Okay. Let’s go celebrate,” he says when my mother nods.
“I’m right behind you. Come on everyone.” My mother waves the way and gets up carefully, finding her balance before she takes a step.
As we move through the kitchen to the family room and outside, I’m touched by the fact that time hasn’t changed this home. It looks remarkably like it did when I was thirty. Little that holds important memories has changed. The dining table in the house is the very same one we gathered around when we were young. The wooden table outside under the loggia is the one I jumped off that fateful day. Touchstones.
The fire pit burns bright in the August night. Around it sits my parents, my brothers and sister and our spouses. Behind us our own children work to clear the dinner dishes, leaving the “old farts” as I like to call my older brothers and sister to enjoy our coffees. I’m still the baby of the family after all, and have to live up to my nickname. The small kids are tucked in beds on the second floor, and their parents are in the house doing clean-up detail.
It doesn’t escape any of us that it’s a poignant scene, beautiful and sad all mixed together with soft moonlight and tender love.
“Are you warm enough, Valentino?” my mother says, tucking the lap blanket around his legs.
He grasps her hand. “Yes, Bella mio. Everything’s fine.”
She scoots her chair closer so she can stay holding his hand. He looks up and smiles at us, moving his gaze around the wide circle of family. A smile brightens his timeworn face.
“Mi familia,” he says softly.
Turning toward my mother something soundless passes between them, words that needn’t be spoken aloud. Two people who because they love hear music even in the silence. Then he starts singing softly. It’s their love song, heard countless times in seventy years. But this rendition must be the most meaningful. It’s difficult for him to get the proper breath, to reach the notes heights, to remember every word. But the meaning and intention has never been so clear.
“Non Dementica, don’t forget you are...”
“My darling,” Sophia sings.
When his words start to falter, Nash joins in. Then Christos, Alexander, me, Dion and Lana. Our voices rise strong, interrupted only by the occasional catch in our throats.
My mother purses her lips tight, holding back her emotions as she watches her children. A smile lifts the corners of Valentino’s mouth and tears glisten in his tired eyes. He picks up his Sophia’s hand and kisses it.
All their life they’ve led the way for us. How to love, how to parent and now how to grow old with grace, singing our love songs to the end of our stories.
THE END
Playlist
“COCKINESS (LOVE IT)” -Rihanna
“EVERYBODY DANCE NOW”- 800 Projekt
“(IV’E HAD) THE TIME OF MY LIFE” -Bill Medley, Jennifer Warnes- Dirty Dancing
“HEY BABY” -Bruce Channel
“STAY” -Maurice Williams & The Zodiacs
“THE TWIST” -Chubby Checker
“SHE’S LIKE THE WIND” -Patrick Swayze, Wendy Fraser
“NON DIMENTICAR”-Dean Martin
Acknowledgments
Writing seems like a solitary art, but that’s not strictly true. There are silent partners in my vision, helpers in league with the dreamer. Invisible hands lift an author so she can have a better view of herself, and sharp eyes read early efforts of every story told. There are shoulders to stand on so I can see what’s possible, letting me know what to aim for. So, to all the good-hearted companions in the dream, I say thank you. And to the generous writer, Marina Adair, who gave this story a home, an undeniable feeling of gratitude.
Cover Design:
Kari March, Kari March Designs
Editing:
Nichole Strauss, Insight Editing
About the Author
Leslie Pike has loved expressing herself through the written word since she was a child. Her passion for film and screenwriting led her to Texas for eight years, where she wrote for a prime-time CBS series. Leslie lives in Southern California with her stuntman/Director husband, Don, and their Pom-Poo, Mr. Big. She’s traveled the world as part of film crews, from Africa to Israel, New York to San Francisco. Now she finds her favorite adventures take place in her home, writing Contemporary Romance.
Connect with Leslie Pike Website
Subscribe
FB Readers Group
Also by Leslie Pike
The Paradise Series
The Trouble With Eden
Wild In Paradise
The Road To Paradise
Sexceptional
Santini Series Novellas
Destiny Laughs
Destiny Plays
s-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share
