Letters from the Wind

A letter to my grandmother

Dearest Nonna,

There are days when the wind stirs through the trees just so, and I’m certain it’s you—folded into the rustle of the leaves, slipped between the sunlight and the silence. It has been years since you left, and yet your absence has never learned how to be quiet. It echoes, soft and stubborn, through the kitchen when I roll out pasta by hand, or when the scent of oranges lingers too long in the room.

I dream of you often now, especially in these aching days, as I watch Mamma—the strongest woman I know after you—begin to flicker beneath the weight of her illness. It breaks something inside me, something tender and primal. And every time my heart splinters a little more, I feel you. Not as a memory, but as a presence—solid, maternal, immovable. You, who built a world with your bare hands and never asked for applause. You, who buried your own husband far too soon and chose to marry only to your children’s future.

I write to you, Nonna, because no one else could understand this ache wrapped in dignity. No one else taught me that love could live in flour-dusted fingers, in fruit peeled tenderly, in a home that smells of Sunday. You were a symphony of warmth and will, and I carry you—quietly, reverently—in everything I do.

I remember how you measured nothing—no cups, no spoons, no scales. Just your hands, your eyes, and something deeper than precision: instinct, care, tradition. “Un poco di questo, un poco di quello,” you’d murmur with that serene confidence, as though the ingredients were speaking to you in a language only the heart could understand. Your kitchen held no recipe books, and neither did your life—and yet both turned out with the richness and flavor of something divinely guided.

You never strategized, never schemed. You simply were—present, steady, luminous. And somehow, in your gentle insistence on doing what was right and real, life seemed to bend graciously around you. It was as if even sorrow bowed in your presence. You were marble—solid, unwavering—and yet you never needed to raise your voice. Your silence could still a room; your smile could disarm an argument. You ruled with kindness, with presence, with the kind of authority born not from power, but from integrity.

Sometimes, I wonder how you bore so much—so many children, so many burdens, so much work—without crumbling. I try to stand as you stood, now that I find myself at the edge of something I can’t yet name. Watching Mamma falter is like watching the moon dim, and I feel too small to hold up the sky. But then I remember you—how your strength came not from the absence of pain, but from the way you carried it without bitterness.

You never taught me how to live, Nonna—not with words. You simply lived, and by doing so, you taught me everything.

Nonna, I don’t know what to do. I am confused.

I try to be strong, the way you were, but lately, I feel like I’m made of glass. I haven’t eaten properly in days, and the nights have forgotten how to bring rest. My body aches with the weight of what I see every day—Mamma, my radiant, fierce Mamma, weak before my eyes. She was always our safe place. And now I am watching her light flicker infront of my eyes, and I don’t know how to hold her, how to carry this pain. How to stop her pain.

I feel lost, Nonna. And I need you.

Tell me—how did you do it? How did you stand in the center of the storm and not fall? How did you bury your young husband, raise all those children, carry your grief and your hope in the same breath, and still smile? I look to the sky and I whisper your name, hoping you’ll come in a dream or a scent or a breeze and remind me how to walk through this fire without burning.

I want to believe that you’re near me now. That you haven’t left. That when I feel the chill wind on my cheek, it’s your hand. That when I hear the whisper of flour in a mixing bowl, it’s your voice, soft and sure.

Please help me. I don’t need miracles—I just need one breath of peace. Just one.

The wind …

“Ah, my little one… la mia stella, why are you holding all this alone?

You always tried to be so brave—even when you were just a little girl with flour on her nose and questions in her eyes. I see you. I see the weight you carry, and I want you to know: you don’t have to hold it all at once.

You ask me how I did it—but I didn’t have a secret. I just did the next thing. One dish. One diaper. One prayer at a time. Sometimes I cried while the sauce simmered. Sometimes I smiled when I wanted to scream. But I always believed this: love never really leaves. Even when it hurts. Even when it breaks you. It’s still there, sewing you back together in the quiet.

You are strong, not because you feel nothing—but because you feel everything, and you still keep loving.

Eat a little something, even if it’s just a peach. Rest your head, even if only for an hour. Sit by the window. Let the sun warm your face. These are not small things—they are sacred.

You are not alone. I am with you when your heart aches. I am with you when you stir the pot and forget what day it is. I am with you when you kiss your mothers face and whisper, “Mom Stay.” I am with you always.

And when the wind comes? That’s me. It’s my voice.

When the laughter surprises you? That’s me, too.

You don’t need to carry it all. Just carry love. The rest will follow.”

Dear Nonna,

As I write these words, my heart feels lighter, knowing that somewhere, in the wind or the sunlight, you are near. Your strength, your laughter, your love—it lives on in me, even when I forget to remember it. And so, I will hold your teachings close. I will be patient with myself. I will not carry all the weight at once. I will breathe.

And when the night feels too long, I will remember your voice, steady and kind, reminding me that love is the thread that ties us all together—through every sorrow, through every joy. I will carry it, as you did, and I will pass it on, just as you passed it to me.

I love you, Nonna. Always and forever.

With all my heart,

Your nipotina