Zio

Our beloved Zio died last Thursday. He was my great uncle, nonna's oldest brother, the glue of our family. No one in our family even called him by his baptized name, Francesco. He was simply Zio. Uncle. He had smile lines as deep as canyons, had a roly-poly tummy on a body that was shorter than mine, always had red wine with every meal, and never missed an afternoon nap. Even if that meant he was napping in a straightback chair, he would still doze. He was a lifelong priest, monsignor of my mom's hometown church and hugely respected, adored by everyone. He celebrated mass every day at a nearby church, including on the day he died. Zio married my parents, my maternal and paternal grandparents, all my uncles, aunts, and cousins. The day of my parents' 30th anniversary mass, which he celebrated, he sat at the altar afterwards drinking the leftover communion wine. Just like that, he gulped it down. Zio didn't pull any punches.

A few years ago when we were over at his house he asked Steve to take his blood pressure with one of those store-bought, cheap-o cuffs they sell in the medical equipment aisle. The numbers were on the high side. He just shrugged, smiled with that twinkle in his eye and asked Steve to take it again...and again and again until the damn thing gave him a reading he was happy with. We're talking like eight times.

The last time I saw him was last September, sitting out on his porch in Oristano. He was wearing his typical uniform of black on black with the crisp, white priest collar. Ti voglio bene; anch'io ti voglio bene. And he gave me that big smile and hug of his. A great, great man.

Below is what Steve and I have affectionately coined The Jack Nicholson Shot.