ria turned and prepared two more cups of her special
scalding brew for us to drink. ���Your grandfather was
home, up on a ladder, fixing one of the outside lights
when he saw the car pull up. They had come to tell us
that our son was dead, to say they were sorry he died
in a war he did not start, to give us a flag to remember
him by. Your grandfather didn���t move from that ladder.
���Keep your flag and get back in your car,��� he told them.
���I didn���t ask for your war. I want what you took from me.
I want my son. Can you give me my son?��� The young officer shook his head no. He got back in the car and they
drove away. It would be another 11 years before cancer
killed your grandfather. But in my heart, I always believe
he died on that day.���
I went back to Ischia and Florence every summer
until 1975 to spend time with both Michelangelo in Florence and Grandma Maria in Ischia. I went there as a
boy and came back home taking tiny steps toward becoming a man. They both helped pave my way, make a
difficult journey easier, their company always welcomed
and often desperately needed. I have learned so much
from both and when I have had failings in my life, as so
often has happened I always feel guilt over having disappointed them.
HYLAND
