The Italian

“Your grandfather is in critical condition in the intensive care unit.”

I stare at the floor through my tears as my throat begins to close up.

He didn’t make it.

No.

Papa.

“Would you like us to contact the rest of your family for you?”

“No.” I close my eyes as I try to regain some strength. “I’ll tell them. They’re on their way.” I put my head into my hands.

Papa.

“Would you like to see your grandfather?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Give me a moment, please?” I whisper as tears well in my eyes.

“If there’s anything we can do.”

“Leave me alone!” I snap angrily.

The door quietly clicks closed, and I screw my face up to fight the tears. I tip my head back to the ceiling. “No, Papa… no.”

Then, I lose all control.

My beloved father… gone.

No.

I slide down the wall and sit on the floor in a crumpled heap as my new, dark reality begins to sink in.

My Papa.

I stare at the wall through tears…this can’t be happening.

* * *

Three hours later, the sound of the heart monitor feels somewhat comforting.

Beep…

Beep…

Beep…

I stare

at my grandfather Stefano’s black and blue face. He is unrecognizable.

The doctors are coming and going. They don’t think he’s going to make it.

I can tell by the language they’re using. It’s already past tense.

My mother, grandmother, and Francesca will be here in two or three hours.

How do I tell them?