Unbreakable

UNBREAKABLE. If my grandmother’s every facet could be reflected by a single word, it would be this one. But how could any number of words come close?

Even her name, Bridget Martha Nusca, proved unable to contain her. Like all timeless icons, she became known by another one entirely that served as both first and last, and followed her everywhere she went: Mamma. 

Standing in her kitchen as a little girl, more pots bubbling than there were burners, casseroles stacked like Jenga and tin foil like sheet lightning, I just couldn’t work it out: how can one person produce so much? She was quicker than sleight of hand, her laugh so big it made no sound as she stretched time and space and food in ways that seemed . . . not of this earth. So I decided, as any child would, that there could be only one explanation: She was magic. As years passed, I got older. Understood better. And only grew more convinced.

To meet her was to understand on sight you were never going to forget her. An incandescent whirlwind, she was equal parts grit and grace, the strength of twenty men with the elegance of a strand of pearls. A force that could bend steel, wearing blue silk and heels.  

Her petite stature shouldn’t have fooled you. Mamma moved outside gravity and loved with ferocity (often at full volume). If her mouth twisted to one side in determination, you were wise to buckle in and just try keeping up. Many suggested she take a rest, but her answer was always the same: there was plenty of time for that in the afterlife.

People often refer to “making a fuss” like it’s a bad thing, an inconvenience to be avoided wherever possible. Mamma was not one of those people. She lived for the fuss. To pull out all the stops, celebrate big no matter the occasion. Thunderstorms called for popcorn on the covered veranda as we cheered the angels bowling in Heaven. A Christmas parade or The Wizard of Oz on television had her calling you up, demanding you drop everything.

Her inner child was inextinguishable. Whether we happened upon a display of animated music boxes, battery-powered visors with lights flashing, rides going up in the shopping mall parking lot—anything designed to make innocent eyes spark wide—mine and Mamma’s did so in unison, and the excitement was palpable as she looked straight to Grandpa, already pulling out his wallet.

Creating joy for others was Mamma’s greatest joy. Whatever came into her possession, she immediately set about figuring out how to share. Her cooking was incomparable, her hospitality impeccable. No matter how tall the order or grim the task, you never saw her falter. Her stride, like her smile, was unshakeable.

She was a lion.

She was a firefly.

She was a Queen.

Beautiful Mamma, my wish for you today is this:

As those shimmering gates swing wide, may you glide through like that cruise ship on its maiden voyage, “ticker tape” flying across the sky, familiar faces wild at your arrival. For at last, the work is all done. The kitchen is clean, the company blissfully full. The last piece of silver returned to its velvet place.

It’s your turn to rest, and no one has earned it more.

Yes, our hearts are broken, but don’t worry. We’ll carry on in the way you have shown us, your fighting spirit alive on every wind chime. For these tears today are but the price to be paid for a love that is unbreakable.