On May 12th, I spent my morning perched on the steps of a cathedral in Catania, Sicily, scraping at the sides of my brain to recall all of the Italian I could muster as an old man named Angelo and I tried our best to communicate across the ocean that would normally divide us. When he had hobbled over to me and begun speaking to me in Italian, I immediately warmed up to him. He felt so familiar to me, as he was reminiscent of the men in my own family with a wrinkled but handsome face, a large, curved nose and watery eyes. His disposition reminded me a terrible amount of my first love’s grandfather, Valerio—he was a short man with a taller spirit who was equal parts eager and bashful to be listened to. 

I was quick and slightly ashamed to admit to him that I was American, and I did not speak much Italian. He had scoffed jokingly, and then shook his head disappointedly and said, “Donald Trump.”

“Lo so,” I know, I nodded, laughing. “Non mi piace.” I don't like him either.

He laughed too and said something I could not understand, and when I just stared at him apologetically, he began to fumble through a bit of broken English. 

“It’s good?” he finally managed, gesturing to the church. I nodded. 

“Very good. Very pretty.”

He nodded too, looking away. “English not so good.”

“Parlami Italiano, signore,” You can speak Italian, I assured him. “Capisco se parli lentamente.” I’ll try to understand if you talk slowly.

He smiled, kissed the back of my hand, and thanked me. I kissed his hand too, and he laughed again. “Dolce ragazzina.” Sweet girl.

“Do you like Catania?” he asked me in Italian, and I nodded enthusiastically. 

“Oh yes, very much.” I was almost positive that he had watched me leave the cathedral in tears, completely overwhelmed by the intricacy of the sculptures and humbled by the intense devotion to one’s faith it must have taken for those artists to painstakingly create something so beautiful. I have always been fond of beautiful churches, but I had never been so moved in my life. I was nearly in hysterics by the time we finished our loop around the church, and when the other students in my study abroad group started to ask me if I was alright, all I could come up with was “it’s just really pretty,” which may have been the understatement of the century. The statues of Jesus and Mary and the saints were so lifelike and so ethereal at the same time, and it was the closest I had ever felt to heaven. I still do not have the words for that feeling, except that it made me want to be better, kinder, and more faithful to the divine and to the secular, too. I thought about the people who were blessed with such immense talent that it made people come undone, and how lucky I was to be seeing it. I thought about heaven, and then I thought about how grateful I was to have come from an immigrant family, to have constant reminders of the countless sacrifices that have been made in order for me to live the life that I do. I got emotional all over again while trying to explain this to Angelo, and he pinched my cheek, cooing at me like I was a newborn. 

“It’s a beautiful place,” he said, and I just nodded dumbly, appreciating the affectionate physicality of the Italian people—it reminded me of my own family, and made me feel at home. There was something very sweet about this behavior being the norm in Sicily, even among strangers. Angelo and I sat in silence for a bit, and then he said, “I did not want to live anymore when my wife died.”

I wasn’t quite sure what to say, and I was relieved that he kept talking. I didn't understand most of what he was saying after that until he said cancro, which I knew meant cancer, and tapped the top of my chest. 

“Heart cancer?” I asked. He shook his head and gestured to his own chest, miming a woman’s breasts, and then I understood him—she had breast cancer. I nodded and so did he. Then he mimed bigger breasts and laughed. I suppose that men have the same humor anywhere in the world, and at any age. 

“Capisci?” he laughed. Do you understand?

“Capisco.”

“I started coming back to church when she died,” he told me quietly. “It’s a small heaven in that church. That’s where my wife is.”

I nodded and started crying again. “Certo. Certo.” Of course she is.

“I am tired,” he said, scratching at his nose in hesitation. “without her.” He started to cry, too. “I am tired of living alone.”

“Capisco,” I said again, which means I understand, which was not true—I did not understand how it felt to watch your spouse die, and even if it happens to me, I still will not understand how it felt for him. He cried for a long while and I didn’t know what to do except hold his hand and tell him that I was sorry and nod while he spoke to me in a language that I did not understand much of until it was time for me to return to the plaza and finish my academic day. I was very apologetic about leaving, but Angelo didn’t mind. I suppose he has made peace with the fact that people come and go (Italians are lovely that way—they enjoy moments without fearing their impermanence, they offer affection simply because bodies are meant to touch, and they drink to taste, not to get drunk—there is a wonderful lightness about all of it). He smiled and kissed both of my cheeks. 

“Bye-bye, baby,” he said in English. 

That afternoon, I thought about Angelo and then I thought about a boy I dated for a summer when I was seventeen. He used to take me to the art museum in our hometown and hold back tears the entire time. I never understood why it made him so emotional, but I really loved it about him. Art is holy, he told me once, which I found a little bit charming and a little bit pretentious, but that afternoon, I understood what he meant. I was completely overwhelmed by the beauty of it all, and if I had not been so overwhelmed, I would not have left the church, and if I would not have left the church, I would not have met Angelo. Art had connected Angelo and I across an ocean, and that is something holy.

That afternoon, when I returned to the church to buy a rosary, Angelo was still alone on the steps, smoking a cigarette. It was wildly picturesque, and I have not been able to get the image out of my head since. He greeted me like I was a friend he hadn’t seen in years, and when his cane scraped at my ankle, I hoped that it would scar. 

“Do you want wine, darling?” he asked, and although I am not normally one for day drinking, I nodded and followed him across the plaza to a cafe where he ordered pinot grigio for the both of us.

We sat in silence for most of the hour. He watched the families walk by, and I watched him. At one point, he began asking me about America and college and I fumbled through what I am sure was awful Italian. When I apologized (again) for my lack of literacy, he just smiled at me, eyes shining. “Va bene,” It’s alright, he said. “Il cuore capisce.” The heart understands.

When he finally got up to leave, I felt like I was going to cry again. He leaned down, kissed both of my cheeks, and told me to enjoy my studies. I wanted to tell him that the time I had spent speaking with him (and sitting in silence, too) had taught me more than perhaps anything else in my entire life, but I didn’t know how to say this in Italian, so I just nodded, taking his hand in mine and kissing it one more time. 

“Darling, darling, darling,” he said in English, accent charmingly thick as he pressed the back of my hand to his cheek. “Be good girl.”

“Io prometto.” I promise.

I sat there for another half hour before our bus arrived, called my mom and cried and had another glass of wine, furiously scribbling down everything I could remember from the day. I was a mess and I was so far from home and it felt wonderful. What a life. What a gift.

“I am drinking white wine with Angelo in the plaza, and I am so in love with the world and everybody in it. I hope that we will all live beautiful lives full of pinot grigio and bread with oil and vinegar and memories of past lovers and the best music there is. I hope that you will see art that changes you, and I hope that you will carry it in your pocket for the rest of your life. I hope that you will be unashamed to cry in public, on the steps of a church halfway across the world or in a cafe in your hometown or anywhere that you have found heaven on earth. I hope that you will speak what’s in your heart until there is nothing left to be said, and I hope that you will have something more to say sometime soon.

In short, life is beautiful and holiness is everywhere—it is carved into sculptures and painted onto ceilings and pressed into the warm hand of a stranger who teaches you that even across languages, the heart understands.”

I hope that these joys and every joy will find you, dear reader, and I hope that you will trust your heart to understand the things that your mind cannot.

Thank you for reading You Get What You Need, and thank you so so so much for the love on my last post, I see love in everything and love sees everything in me too. By some miracle, I have gained 2,000 subscribers since that article was posted (??!?!?!?!!????), which I still cannot fathom—thank you. I am so humbled and so grateful and so excited to share more with you. ♡