Loss. It's something that I sometimes feel we grapple with endlessly but never truly come to terms with. At least that's how this year has felt. As if I've just learned to make a deal with fate. To compromise. But in compromise, often both parties lose. That compromise consists of telling myself it's okay to be sad about all of the things that we will miss out on together, but rather, be grateful for the brief time that we had. I am grateful.
I feel like we met on what I still consider one of the most beautiful nights of my life. When Giò and I were not really a thing yet, but knew that we somehow would be. Because I remembered his presence like a sort of deja vu in the fleeting background of some of my fondest daydreams as a child when I thought about husbands. We were walking through Brooklyn Heights after having watched the sunset at Fort Tilden. I remember asking him to turn around as I changed out of my swimsuit. And we stood alone under the moonlight with our backs turned to one another, but still somehow in a warm embrace. Because our souls were already tied to one another.
He called Giò as he was coming back from (or heading out to?) Italy. "I'm with Melissa right now, Dad," Giò said. I remember how it felt to know that He knew of me--both daunting and comforting.
And I remember the first time I heard his voice over the phone. When Giò called him to arrange plans for Thanksgiving. "Dad, I'm going over for Thanksgiving on the (such and such date)."
"Hold on, son. Let me write this down."
I laughed out loud. Both at his beautiful accent--so much an Italian that grew up in New York City and spent a few decades in Syracuse (but that wasn't changing anything)--and his need to write down when Thanksgiving would be. I laughed at how adorable I found his attempt to keep everything organized. "Let me write this down" was not something I ever heard of growing up. We were an organized mess.
And I remember meeting him for the first time. When he came down with his wife. Mr. and Mrs. Crisafulli. To give my sister and I our first communions. We talked and talked for the two hour drive to Connecticut. The car was never silent. And when they met my family it was as if they were all old friends. Him and Giò had so much sancocho with the special agrio that we get from our bitter orange trees back home that my father demanded I bring him an entire bottle the next time I saw him. And I did. Smuggled right form the Dominican Republic. I could go on about how special that night was.
When he drove us back home he hugged me outside of the car. "I love you, Melissa," he told me. And "I love you too," I said. Those hugs of his were otherworldly. He could trademark them. Joe's hugs were a phenomenon. They transcended the corporeal and touched you at your center. His hugs were so present and devastatingly sincere that I often felt my eyes well up with tears every time we exchanged one. And it is because of his generous spirit that one returned the generosity. Every moment with him had heart. As it should be.
When Joe told stories they felt more like journeys. And you took them with him. There was a childlike enthusiasm in his voice and every moment was just as important as the last. His eyes lit up, his hands drew shapes in space, and he smiled from ear to ear. Often they ended with an "Aaah" that always had a way of showing just how grateful he was for our existence.
I don't know when I will ever be okay with the brevity of our relationship. I don't know when I will stop thinking, "It would have been great if he could have been around for..." Selfishly, the legacy that he left behind will never be enough for me. Joe was a gift to this universe. He redefined the meaning of "larger than life". Knowing him was a blessing. And it was a gift sometimes I feel was yanked away from me just as I began to enjoy it. Selfishly, I needed more time with him. Selfishly, I wish he were still around to see that he made such an important impact on my life. That the lens that he left behind with which to see the world and all of its beauty has changed me forever. My life is saturated with rich color and texture. I see with more depth, I think with more depth, I read with more depth, and above all, I love with more depth.
But when those feelings come around he always returns to me. He finds me in my dreams to hug me and it feels just the same as it always has. He reminds me when I catch Giò acting just as he would that God willing, our future kids won't live without him. He reminds me when I'm walking down the street on a sunny day. He reminds me when I'm walking down the street on a rainy day. Because those days are beautiful too. I often find that speaking of him in the past tense is nonsensical. Because how could a person so vast ever truly be gone?
There was so much grace in his departure. I find solace in that. I find solace in all of the lives he grew to be a part of because they were all so deeply touched by his care. I find solace in the family of loving people he left behind and in knowing that I am a part of it. He made this world better. He made life better. He made me better.
I began writing this with the title, "A Year Without You" but I found this one more fitting. A soul so tied to this universe will live on forever, floating through time and planting flowers of love and empathy in people's hearts. This is how I know that he never left us and never will. Joseph Crisafulli Jr. is eternal. God bless you and all that you have done for everyone that had the pleasure of encountering you.
I feel like we met on what I still consider one of the most beautiful nights of my life. When Giò and I were not really a thing yet, but knew that we somehow would be. Because I remembered his presence like a sort of deja vu in the fleeting background of some of my fondest daydreams as a child when I thought about husbands. We were walking through Brooklyn Heights after having watched the sunset at Fort Tilden. I remember asking him to turn around as I changed out of my swimsuit. And we stood alone under the moonlight with our backs turned to one another, but still somehow in a warm embrace. Because our souls were already tied to one another.
He called Giò as he was coming back from (or heading out to?) Italy. "I'm with Melissa right now, Dad," Giò said. I remember how it felt to know that He knew of me--both daunting and comforting.
And I remember the first time I heard his voice over the phone. When Giò called him to arrange plans for Thanksgiving. "Dad, I'm going over for Thanksgiving on the (such and such date)."
"Hold on, son. Let me write this down."
I laughed out loud. Both at his beautiful accent--so much an Italian that grew up in New York City and spent a few decades in Syracuse (but that wasn't changing anything)--and his need to write down when Thanksgiving would be. I laughed at how adorable I found his attempt to keep everything organized. "Let me write this down" was not something I ever heard of growing up. We were an organized mess.
And I remember meeting him for the first time. When he came down with his wife. Mr. and Mrs. Crisafulli. To give my sister and I our first communions. We talked and talked for the two hour drive to Connecticut. The car was never silent. And when they met my family it was as if they were all old friends. Him and Giò had so much sancocho with the special agrio that we get from our bitter orange trees back home that my father demanded I bring him an entire bottle the next time I saw him. And I did. Smuggled right form the Dominican Republic. I could go on about how special that night was.
When he drove us back home he hugged me outside of the car. "I love you, Melissa," he told me. And "I love you too," I said. Those hugs of his were otherworldly. He could trademark them. Joe's hugs were a phenomenon. They transcended the corporeal and touched you at your center. His hugs were so present and devastatingly sincere that I often felt my eyes well up with tears every time we exchanged one. And it is because of his generous spirit that one returned the generosity. Every moment with him had heart. As it should be.
When Joe told stories they felt more like journeys. And you took them with him. There was a childlike enthusiasm in his voice and every moment was just as important as the last. His eyes lit up, his hands drew shapes in space, and he smiled from ear to ear. Often they ended with an "Aaah" that always had a way of showing just how grateful he was for our existence.
I don't know when I will ever be okay with the brevity of our relationship. I don't know when I will stop thinking, "It would have been great if he could have been around for..." Selfishly, the legacy that he left behind will never be enough for me. Joe was a gift to this universe. He redefined the meaning of "larger than life". Knowing him was a blessing. And it was a gift sometimes I feel was yanked away from me just as I began to enjoy it. Selfishly, I needed more time with him. Selfishly, I wish he were still around to see that he made such an important impact on my life. That the lens that he left behind with which to see the world and all of its beauty has changed me forever. My life is saturated with rich color and texture. I see with more depth, I think with more depth, I read with more depth, and above all, I love with more depth.
But when those feelings come around he always returns to me. He finds me in my dreams to hug me and it feels just the same as it always has. He reminds me when I catch Giò acting just as he would that God willing, our future kids won't live without him. He reminds me when I'm walking down the street on a sunny day. He reminds me when I'm walking down the street on a rainy day. Because those days are beautiful too. I often find that speaking of him in the past tense is nonsensical. Because how could a person so vast ever truly be gone?
There was so much grace in his departure. I find solace in that. I find solace in all of the lives he grew to be a part of because they were all so deeply touched by his care. I find solace in the family of loving people he left behind and in knowing that I am a part of it. He made this world better. He made life better. He made me better.
I began writing this with the title, "A Year Without You" but I found this one more fitting. A soul so tied to this universe will live on forever, floating through time and planting flowers of love and empathy in people's hearts. This is how I know that he never left us and never will. Joseph Crisafulli Jr. is eternal. God bless you and all that you have done for everyone that had the pleasure of encountering you.