Saying Goodbye to Nonna’s House

Instinctively I still search for her face at family gatherings. That split second I think I’ve found her before the cold  realisation that it couldn’t possibly be, it seems habits are hard to break.

Nonna’s funeral wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. I remembered my own sisters funeral years before, a sense of unease clung to me, grief weighed down my rib cage making breathing a strain and brought invisible inflammation to every joint. Walking into her service felt like I was swimming against a strong current and it took all my strength to not drown. But Nonna’s funeral was the only time I ever felt a true sense of peace. At her wake I stared at a painting of the alps that hung in her hallway, she once told me she bought it when she was homesick because it reminded her of home. I was surprised her presence was not lingering as I felt my sisters linger. The final ritual had been performed and she was home. Her house didn’t hold the same comfort as it once did, I’ve sat outside in my car on occasion, even though it has new owners, trying to see if the feeling would come back.

Now Nonna’s house lives in mine, making star soup for my kids when they’re sick. Remembering her recipes and swearing in Italian.

This series of images are of Nonna’s house, her essence gone.