Not just me & you anymore (G!P)

C. 43

When I was a little girl, my mom used to tell me that I was afraid of brides: every Sunday morning there was no chance of walking past a church, because if we happened to meet a bride in the churchyard, I would make an Oscar-like scene. No one ever really understood what the reason was, but all it took was a white dress, a veil, two petals, and boom... instant tears, complete with "police siren" model screams. I honestly don't remember it, but for years I clung to this thought: on the one hand it was one of the few memories of my mother that survived the time, and on the other hand it was a very good justification, which also sounded a bit like a joke, as to why I was reluctant in the face of the idea of getting married. In truth, I was never really opposed to the idea, but I was always afraid of "forever." No "forever" ever ended well in my home or family, so why should I be the exception? All these thoughts, however, clashed and lost their battle when I met Maya. I can't pretend that I never loved before her, but she was my first mature love, she was the person with whom I dreamed of being able to build a family before I was able to actually do it.

And today finally my mother's memories turned out to be somewhat true, because from the moment I saw Andy dressed as a bride, when she walked down the aisle, when she stood in front of Riccardo, when they exchanged vows, when they shared their first kiss as husband and wife until the party began, I did nothing but cry. It was obviously not a cry of fear, but of joy, mixed with envy. The excitement was multiplied by finding in front of me throughout the ceremony my daughter, Viviana, who served as a bridesmaid along with the bride and groom's son, and especially Maya, beautifully dressed and beautifully best woman.

From the party onward fortunately the emotions inside me moved in a way, yes swirling, but without provoking more tears. It is one of the most enjoyable parties I have ever been to, filled with laughter, good food, great wine, the pleasant outside temperature, a dream location, amused and drunk friends who ended up in the pool fully clothed, cheerful relatives who blended in perfectly with a friendly group of crazy people. It is truly a perfectly successful wedding and I, for most of the time, could not take my eyes off Maya, who spent almost the entirety of her time together with Viviana, dancing, playing with her on the grass barefoot along with other children, carrying her to the table at each course so that she would not forget to eat, and then picking her up on her shoulders and off, back to laughing and playing in this immense green space. With each crystal-clear laugh from my daughter, my heart grew wider and wider, and my memory retraced more and more all the best moments when I fell a little more in love with Maya.

Over time, as the years passed and especially with the birth of my daughters, I began to experience all the anniversaries concerning my mother differently. I don't think time can ever really heal the wound of her loss completely, but slowly I was able to experience all anniversaries as a reason to celebrate her and no longer just as a reason to mourn her. The first few years that I spent alone with Viviana I missed my mother madly, on those particular days so much that I felt like screaming, but I found that talking about it together with her, showing her pictures, telling her about the best moments of my childhood, somehow soothed my grief and above all did more justice to her memory.

That is why in some ways I find it so absurd to experience my father's birthday in such a drastically painful way. A person alive and well, who is, however, unreachable, distant, almost nonexistent. Aside from the rare video calls he chooses, when it suits him, two or three times a year, to make with my daughters, his granddaughters have never even seen him live. Maybe grief is a feeling you somehow learn to deal with. But anger is not. Anger I haven't yet made it through. So every birthday, much more than other days, I get into a loop of insecurities, of questions, of "why doesn't he want me?", "why doesn't he care to meet his granddaughters live?". I experience a deep sense of abandonment on this day that I am unable to handle. Since Viviana has been in my life, I have always spent this day together with Andrea, my brother, because I have tried not to succumb to negative emotions and instead try to experience it as a family moment. The first year that Maya returned to our family, I decided to leave Viviana with her and spend the entire day alone with my brother. Yet none of these alternatives ever made me feel better. For this year then, I decided to leave both girls with Maya and disappear into thin air. All day long I just wanted to drive around, around and around again with my car, idling, stopping occasionally at places full of tourists to see if the crowds could encompass me. I stayed as far as the sea, sitting on the sand wrapped in a blanket like any desperate person. I fell into the loop whereby the sense of abandonment enters my veins and maybe I deserve this, I deserve to be alone, I deserve to cry without anyone to dry my tears, I deserve not to find comfort in anyone's strong arms. It is only at dinnertime that I venture back home and only a moment before I go inside I read on my phone all the updates Maya has sent me during the day: the rich morning breakfast, the video of Celeste spilling on her back and belly in the morning cuddle and play session, Viviana jumping rope in the garden, lunch, Maya taking a selfie hugging my pillow saying she misses me, Viviana with her hands soiled with paint, Celeste laughing. I don't even notice the tears running down my face as I look at this endless wave of love that is my family.