Almerinda Teresa Ferarra Bifulco
August 11, 1927 - March 29, 2012
On my drive to work the other morning, the realization that I had not mentioned the passing of my grandmother in my previous post smacked me in the face. Hard. I got that guilty feeling in the pit of my stomach and started to tear up. My grandmother, father of my mother, passed away after declining health just after midnight on March 29, 2012. My parents and aunt had just left after saying goodbye and I'd like to believe that she died after knowing she had really said goodbye. She's joined again with my grandfather after being apart for 16 years.
I wasn't really that close with her. I always felt that, even though he passed when I was only 8, I had a closer bond with my grandfather. My family moved out to California when I was 6 and I only saw her when we visited New York or she came out here (once, for a month between Thanksgiving and Christmas). My dad would call every Sunday and holiday to chat and my sister and I would get on the phone for a bit to say hello and update. Unfortunately, she was hard of hearing and had a tendency to talk over you without letting you get a word in edgewise. Don't get me wrong, I loved her dearly. I just wasn't close with her. Which may be why I felt so much sadness and guilt when she did pass. She had been saying she wanted to leave this world for a long time and at the end, I knew she was right to wish it. She was lonely.
When it came to flying out there and saying our last goodbyes, it all felt surreal. At the funeral home, we saw family we hadn't seen in years or hadn't even met (my family is big - it's what Italians do. Meeting family members when you're 23 is normal). I was relieved when friends started showing up and I didn't have to do the awkward sympathy song-and-dance with relatives I barely knew. When a family friend, whom my sister and I call "uncle", walked in to the funeral chapel, I literally felt a weight lift off my shoulders. It was so good to see a familiar face.
The day of the funeral was one that I had to brace myself for. We were burying my grandmother next to my grandfather and I didn't know how I would take it. I also knew I would be around funeral flowers, namely stargazer lilies and well, I just don't handle those well at all. It goes back to my grandfather's funeral when I was 7. Any whiff of that overpowering scent and BAM! Flashback to the funeral home and the funeral and how cold and gone he looked. I hate that smell. Take note. I. Hate. It.
I voiced my concern over the flowers to my mom, and noted that I had been OK the day of the wake. She said just take as much time as I need. Well, the moment I walked into the chapel and caught a whiff of the flowers, I was straight up bawling. Not just teary eyed. Bawling my eyes out and taking big gul[ps of air to calm me down. It was the reality that both of my grandparents were gone, I was never going to kiss her or hug her again. Never going to talk about the Yankees with her again (the one shared love amongst me, my sister, my dad and his mother). Never, ever, ever again. The realization that my dad now had lost both of his parents. The realization that I have to do this twice more with my mother's parents (and I'm much closer with them). I was a mess.
After that, I was ok. The funeral was nice, although the priest kept using her full name, which she didn't go by. The burial plot was nicely set up and thankfully we left before they lowered her down. It was hard to see my grandfather's tombstone but my tears were dried for the day. We had a family only reception at a local hotel, which meant 40 people crammed into a conference room. My family had spent the few days prior scanning all sorts of photos, old and new, and had put them on a looping slideshow. We shared funny stories about her and smiled at the memories. Then we all left and went our separate ways.
The most surreal part of the whole weekend was being in her house, my grandparent's house, without either of them there. I slept in my dad's old bedroom, where I've stayed before. We cleaned up a bunch and my parents stayed a few extra days and really cleaned it out. They've gone back since and completely cleaned it up and we're now renting out the upstairs portion. The house my dad grew up in and the house my grandfather added to and remodeled several times is now being inhabited by strangers. The same goes for my mother's childhood home, since her parents did what most elderly New Yorkers do - moved to Florida.
Death is part of growing up. It sucks but it's a cold, hard fact. I only wish it were easier. But we always have the memories.
Popi Toni, 3 year old me and Nani Alma
Antonio and Alma on their wedding day in 1953
Nani, me, my sister (such an adorable child) and Popi.
