The Healing Journey

August 2, 2023

“There are no goodbyes for us. Wherever you are, you will always be in my heart.”
–Mahatma Gandhi

Frank still remembers when his grandmother died at 83. He took the train back from college for her funeral, and as he knelt beside her casket, a flood of memories came back. He saw an old woman, who was almost blind, worn down by the years and a hard life. Her husband died in his 40s, leaving her behind — an Italian immigrant in America, a stranger in a strange land, who had to raise nine kids by herself.

For several years, he lived with her on the East Side of Bridgeport in a two-bedroom apartment on Sherman Street. He was only five, but every morning, they would walk across the street to St. Mary Church for Mass, and then they’d wait for an old man, who drove his antique truck through the neighborhood, selling vegetables and fruit, and she’d select what they would eat that day.

In the afternoon, he would lie on the floor of that small apartment in front of the stove with his coloring book and crayons, while she sat nearby in a rocking chair, praying her rosary. Two sweet potatoes baked in the oven — one for her and one for him. She always feel asleep by the fourth decade, but woke up just as the potatoes were ready.

In her last years, she was sent to a nursing home, where no one spoke her language. No more morning Mass, no vegetable vendor, no gossiping with her Italian neighbors. Frank’s mother once said, “One mother can take care of nine kids, but nine kids can’t take care of one mother.”

When she died, there was no obituary, and her accomplishments were overlooked in a world that values power, prestige and possessions more than motherhood. But it occurred to Frank that this small woman named Angelina, who was of little consequence in the eyes of the world, is probably a towering saint in Heaven.

At her funeral, he cried because he never had a chance to say goodbye — or thank you.

***

It’s never too late to say good-bye or to say thank you.