a brutal war, ventured to Naples every day during those
long, dark years to buy what she could in the black market to feed a family of six and loved my Grandpa Gabriel
from the first moment they touched eyes. She always
had a pocket full of candy and a pot of coffee brewing
on her small stove. She lived in a two-story white stone
house a short walk from a pristine beach she never visited.
She had nothing in common with Michelangelo yet
the two combined, in that memorable summer of 1969,
to help direct my life to a more positive path. Michelangelo did it through his life and his work. Grandma Maria did it by the way she lived her life and the stories
she told. Those stories were always shared over cups
of hot Italian coffee, drunk the way Grandma Maria prepared it���two sugars, one small piece of chocolate and
a splash of Stock 84, an Italian brandy���sitting at the
large wooden table in the center of her living room. The
house was neat and sparsely furnished and there were
only two photos on the walls, across from one another. The photos were large and wrapped in thick ornate
wooden frames. One I knew was of my Grandpa GabriHYLAND
