Notoriously Beautiful

1

Nonna Katerina

Once upon a time lived a young woman, and her name was Katerina. That would be my grandma. Then came my mom, and after a short span of thirty years I was born. Three generations of strong driven women, each of us stronger and stronger—I might as well be Achilles.
The English teacher I had in high school had always told me that "once upon a time," was a cliche and unoriginal way to start a writing piece. I'm taking my life as it comes. My life is not a story in a book, not yet at least. Maybe when it is though, merely a wondrous story that makes people of all ages smile, maybe then, the story would begin with a once upon a time, in big letters just like this,

Once Upon A Time . . .
Everyday I see the same faces, and everyday I see new ones. The question is, are they just more to add to the collection, in my already filled up brain? Hold on there, my brain isn't filled up, it only thinks it is. Personally, I think we need to know as many people as possible. I'm a person too though. I really need to know myself first. However, I don't think I know myself as well as I should. That's one of the many reasons why I've decided to move.
It is human nature to want to get to know new people and yourself, which is good. I decided two months ago that I wouldn't let faces just be faces. I decided I'd fill my brain with more memories than it can hold. Hopefully when I do, I'll know why it was the right thing to do.
Who decides to move from New York to Sicily, in two days? Two days is the amount of time it took for me to choose a place on the map. I could have picked any place in the world, my only condition was that it couldn't be anywhere close to New York. To be even more specific, nowhere on the North American continent. I decided I'd move to Nizza di Sicilia, because that's where my grandma was born. She moved to New York when she was seven years old. She moved with her mamma and papà. She didn't have any siblings, but she had many friends she had to leave behind in Sicily. She was brave though, one might say, even more brave than I.
When she came to America as a seven year old, she worked in a factory with other children. She told me that she lost her pinky finger that way, believe it or not. She'd always tell me how terrible it was, how sticky and humid it felt in the factory, she could barely breathe at times. She worked with almost five hundred other kids there, in the factory. Every week when she got her pay, she'd go home to her parents, skipping happily. She'd take her hard earned money and simply hand it over to her parents. They thanked her for being such an amazing little girl, for understanding the situation they were in. Meanwhile, she thanked them everyday for coming to America, even if it meant she had to work hard. She wanted an education, and in New York, she got one.
The money she made at her factory job was used to buy food for the family. My grandma was not alone, her mom and dad also worked. Her mother cleaned houses, and her father was a laborer. He worked for a construction company, as he did in Italy, but their money was used for renting the apartment that they lived in. Sometimes my grandma would tell me stories about her hiding a couple of dimes under the blanket that she slept on, but her mother would always find them when she would clean up.
I loved my grandma so much. When I was born, my mom took care of me, and she treated me like a little princess. I think part of the reason she treated me so good, was to take my mind off the fact that my father abandoned me. I'd tell her I didn't care, but I did. I cared because all my friends at school would tell me how great their fathers were, and I'd smile and nod. I just couldn't bring myself to say you're lucky though, because that would mean that I was unlucky.
I wasn't unlucky. I'm still not. I'm sincerely just so blessed. My mom and grandma raised me to know better than to say that I'm unlucky. My mom and grandma taught me that there are so many people in this world who are unlucky, but I'm not one of them. I'm not because I have the opportunity to do anything I want. The sky is the limit for me, my grandma would say. So, why am I deciding to leave my grandma and mom? Answer is, I'm not. My grandma died three months ago. That was when I decided I wouldn't let faces just be faces. For my grandma, my precious nonna. She died of old age, she was always so healthy. Eighty seven years, seven months, and four days old, that was her age when she passed.
The day she died is terribly painful to talk about. Imagine a child losing their comfort blanket. That day that will forever be sort of tattooed into my memory, or my mind. The day she died, I cried so much, so much that my neck and shirt were doused with tears. My grandma was like a second mother to me, but more than that, she was my best friend.
I asked my mom so many times to come with me to Italy. She wouldn't budge, not until I showed her the house I am going to move into. She didn't change her mind because of the beauty of the house, she changed her mind because she realized that I am serious about moving. There's so many good things about moving.
What would she be doing in New York all alone, if her only daughter lived in another country. My mom is not working anymore, so that's not holding her back. She retired from being a nurse a few years back, when my grandpa got sick. My nonna wanted to help him but she was also old, so she didn't have the strength to do everything my grandpa needed her to do. My mom stepped up, and moved in with them. I stayed at the house.
When I made a firm decision that I wanted to move, I found a villa in Nizza, Sicily. Nizza di Sicilia, is a province of Messina. In New York I am, or shall I say was, a nurse. I quit one week ago. My mom and I used work at the same hospital.
I already applied for jobs in Nizza before I move so I have a job when I get there. Now I'm twenty six, and I just got hired at University Hospital of Nizza (Azienda Ospedaliera Universitaria di Nizza).
Not too long from now I'll be joyful, lucky, and livin la vita grande, with my mom in our totally awesome, charizmatic to say the least, mind blowing house. It's up on a slight little hill. There is still something that is just not right. It's not settling nicely in my gut. That feeling has been going on for a while, recently though, I've been feeling much better, I almost feel whole. There is something within me that I still haven't found though. It's as if I had been trying too hard to feel whole again, that I forgot the reason I feel unwhole. I just miss nonna Katerina so much. Her leaving me, that jabbing, piercing, pain won't go away, and a wince when I think about not being able to stroke her beautiful, brittle hair. However, I will heal in time. She would have told me to go out with some friends and relax a little. She told me never to get overworked.

Even though it's been two months since I've decided to move, it's only been a little over three minutes (I'm estimating) that I've been here. Yes, I made it. I don't have any friends here yet. I speak Italian almost fluently which is very important since I'm going to work in a hospital where everyone else is Italian, born and most likely raised. I'm afraid that all of the Native speakers will know I'm American. Well afraid isn't the right word. I'm just hoping I can be treated like anyone else, at work, and out of work too.
Now that I'm off of the terrifying turbulent plane ride, I just can't wait to get to my new house, in a new country. All new, new for me.