Frequently, through out my life, my Nonno has sat down next to me, or stopped me at a party, or leaned across a bustling dinner table and whispered my name, “Aymily...” and told me this story.
“Aymily, whin I wassa seesa years ole’d, eet wahs my bert-day. In Sicilia, we ware, so poor. I wassa sahd bee-cowsa we hahdda no mahnee. No mahnee.... Ahnd so, I wassa cry-eeng eh cry-eeng eh cry-eeng eh. Ahnd my zia say to my moe-ter, “Fry Nino ahn egg.” So, my moe-tera, Grazie Dio!, she fry-eh mee an egg fer my a bert-day. Ay-mily, I wassa sooo hah-py , soo hah-py. Grazie, Dio! We ware so poor. I-ah ree-maim-bair. I wassa so hah-py. I wassa seesa years ole’d.”
I hear this story more and more the older I get. And lately, the tears start to well in his eyes sooner and sooner. And even though, I can recited it now by heart, I’m glad to hear it every time. It reminds me of where I’ve come from and how happiness can be as simple as a fried egg.
