would find comfort and solace and an escape from the
difficulties I knew I would need to confront over many a
decade.
And across those years and through many a rough
patch of ocean, it was reading about or seeing the works
of Michelangelo and visiting that very special church in
Piazza Santa Croce that helped me navigate those turbulent waters.
After Florence, I ventured south to the island of Ischia, 18 miles off the coast of Naples, to spend the rest
of the summer surrounded by the warmth and love of my
mother���s family. There was one among the many whose
loving embrace I was quick to accept who had, along
with Michelangelo, the most profound affect on me. She
was a short, stout woman with thick hair the color of a
cloud, brown eyes that sparkled and a gap-tooth smile
she only gave to those she most loved.
She was my Grandma Maria.
Grandma Maria always wore black and had from the
day my Grandpa Gabriel gave in to a long and fruitless
battle to cancer, three months before I was born. She
was a woman of few words, hated gossip of any kind
and never told anyone of her problems. She had survived
HYLAND
