He came out of a broken land into a country
still unfolding, arrived in ’56
to a nation not yet finished,
guessing at its own name, a nation
opening its doors to the world, saying come, take part,
and he saw the opening and walked through it,
and out of hope and work and community
he crafted a life, in a home, with a wife,
with a family, in an ordinary suburb made extraordinary
by the fact of him in it.

Then the children came. Then the children of the children.
Then theirs. Four generations grafted to the one
stubborn vine, climbing up and up as Papà,
Nonno, Bisnonno, each name a further reach of the same root,
all of it meaning: he is here, so we are safe.

Sunday was never a day of the week.
Sunday was a table that kept unfolding,
with so much food from Nonna we were full
past fullness, but ate on, and Nonno’s wine
dark in the glasses, homemade, always poured
too much and always too little, for we wanted more,
wanted it because his hands were in it.

And on he went, and on, and on,
even after Nonna left the table,
finding fresh life, new friends,
other tables to sit at,
seeing the family widen in his wake,
pushing beyond ninety, till his eyes gave out
and the mind began its small tricks,
but still he loved us in the measure
of a man with nothing left to want.

He came here a stranger.
He did not find a home.
He built one, and then he became one,
and now the vine goes on without its root,
which is only another way of saying
it goes on because of it.

 

For my father-in-law, who became the father I lost

 

3/9/2026