by Angelica Connolly
At night, I would listen for the final creak of the old hardwood floors, signaling the commencement of the night’s soiree.
Even though I was about two or three, I was able to hoist myself out of my crib and land softly on the plush carpet, undetected. My room was blush pink adorned with soft accents of winged angels that taunted me with their ability to fly along the shadows.
The dim flow of my nightlight animated the quiet chorography of the evening. The angels pulsed with the headlights of passing cars and danced to the beat of my beloved magnolia tree who tapped her tender branches along the glass of my window.
The best part about the night would be my grandmother. My Nonna would be in the room next door, lying awake, acutely listening for my knees to slide across the hall; crawling toward her in a leopard-like stealth felt as devious as parting the Red Sea in my attempt to make it to her room without alerting my parents of my bedtime defiance.
Our nights never consisted of conversation. Even though I was very young and could barely speak a coherent sentence, I had an understanding that we would communicate through a permeable silence that would only allow for quite giggles and eyebrow furrows to dictate the night’s order. A quiet rebellion against the demand of sleep.
Some children fear the dark, frightened by the shadows that play across the floorboards and picture frames. But in my Nonna’s room we understood who the shadows were. The shadows were misunderstood as their lanky limbs and ghostly visage caused accidental horror. However, they were benevolent in a way they could effortlessly slither into the corners of my mind to learn the script of my dreams, so they could perform the visionary scenes across the stage of Sherwin-Williams Eggshell White.
I would reach up with my small hand, seeking hers in the wispy darkness, and the moment her fingers wrapped around mine, I knew our secret rendezvous had begun.
Together, we tiptoed down the hallway, though my Nonna moved with far less fear of being detected. She walked with an omnipotent calm, her quiet authority somehow beyond the reach of my parents’ discipline.
I would burrow into the fleece blanket waiting for me on the couch, its softness a small refuge from the brisk chill of the night. Nonna, with her quiet efficiency, would go to the kitchen to warm up some pastina she had tucked away in the fridge. The familiar opening notes of The Golden Girls filled the room as the TV flickered to life, its warm hues casting a cozy glow that enchanted the room like a sunrise.
I’d curl up on our plaid couch, its fabric worn and stained with my saliva and boogers, shoving tiny stars into my mouth as an act of serenading the night sky.
Then, we would lean our heads against the frosted chill of the window, searching for the moon- the gentle lady who hosts our soiree, the sun of the night. Once we found her, glowing in her quiet majesty, together we would speak our first words. The secret password that granted us entry into the hidden wisdom of the shadows and stars.
We would call to our bella luna, our beautiful moon, and in return she would wrap us in a familial embrace, pulling us closer into the night’s trance.
Awake in my crib, gripping tightly onto my plush doll, sucking on her fabric and finding comfort in her cotton body that had become mangled and discolored. I would be scooped out of bed by my mother, her arms attempting to caress my drowsy body into the consciousness of day. I would wonder if her maternal intuition could detect my midnight escapades from my cranky attitude and reluctance to arise from my covers.
I had only known my grandmother for a few short years, yet even now, I find myself tearing up reminiscing about my Nonna’s divine connection to life. She possessed a willful fortitude that gave ode to the kind of love that wasn’t gloated about among others. Her relationships felt as sacred as a precious secret.
Sometimes, I wonder if her affection for me might have surpassed that of her other grandchildren. But then, I imagine we all deliberate the same, each of us convinced, in our own way, that we were her favorite. Only a grandmother could weave a love so expansive and nuanced that every child felt uniquely cherished, never questioning the sacred nature of her adoration.
The way I received news of my grandmother’s death still feels cruel. I was standing in the backyard with my parents, my brother, so little that Nonna’s presence appeared more like a whisper than a being in his memory.
My dad handed me a balloon.
“Okay Angelica, now you have to let go.”
I used to have balloons tied around my wrist to spare my parents from my tears, responding to their instinctual need to float. Why now are they encouraging me to give my balloon away to the sky?
“The balloon is going to see Nonna on the moon.”
We stood there in silence as the ballon floated upward, absorbed into boundless blue.
“How do we go too? To the moon,”
I started to sob, unknowing why my Nonna loved the moon more than me. Why did she leave me behind knowing that I would be left to dance the night alone while my parents tended to the infernal cries of baby brother?
Today I look at the moon, knowing she keeps the people I miss close as she guides their light to enliven robins and butterflies.
Each night when I spot Bella Luna, I say her name aloud yet so softly it could be a sigh of breath. This is a quiet prayer for every soul who dances in the eternal night, celebrating the rhythm of shooting stars.