You know how, sometimes, just the right song comes on at just at the right time?
On Wednesday, it was my Italian birth father’s birthday. Several years have passed since I last scribbled, stamped and posted a last minute card, stuffing it through a red Royal Mail postbox on a wing and a prayer that it would reach his apartment in the nick of time. Seat of my pants, always.
Like so many last times we don’t appreciate are the last times in the moment, I don’t actually remember the final card or letter I wrote to my papà, hastily scrawling my address on the back of the envelope and always having to check the correct spelling of Inghilterra.
I still get it wrong.
As the years go by, in that strange, unfathomable way that grief works, I miss him no less and, oddly, more.
Will and I have wondered if this might have something to do with an adopted daughter’s guilt over mourning one father, whilst her beloved dad—also her father—is still with us. Still here to write birthday cards to.
The day started out cloudy and overcast as I headed out to the first Pilates class I’d been to in over a month (and oh, did it show. I’m now feeling it in muscles I’d forgotten existed).
I laced up my old Nikes, threw a trench coat over my leggings (my thinking is, if we dress like it’s spring, maybe it will hurry it along?) and plugged into the day’s Lentern meditation on the Hallow app to listen to on the 20 minute walk to the studio.
I realised, immediately, that quiet and meditative wasn’t what I needed, so I switched it up for one of Spotify’s randomly curated mixes that it bases on your favourites.
At the intro of the first track on the playlist, I almost laughed out loud: Mediterraneo by Jovanotti, the Italian singer/songwriter whose music perfectly captures for me the Italian spirit, my papà’s hometown and, come to that, my papà himself: sunny, upbeat, joyful, melancholy …
Emotional. Ever so slightly bonkers.
And then, the chorus:
Sì ,ma adesso basta piangere
Ora è tempo di rinascere
Avanti amici
Or:
Yes, but now stop crying
Now it's time to be reborn
Forward friends
I smiled wide and picked up the pace, buffeted by the defiantly positive beat and words which carried me along as the sun, literally, started to break through the clouds (see? The trench worked).
Giorni nuovi che si aprono
Sento il vento che mi chiama e partirò
Sempre navigando in un bicchiere di Mediterraneo
Or:
New days opening
I hear the wind calling me and I will leave
Always sailing in a glass of Mediterranean
The Mediterranean, which lapped the shores of my family’s hometown, was my papà’s happy place. It’s where he took early morning dips, drying off on a rock in the first rays of the day before starting work.
The song evokes those precious summers spent with him in my twenties and thirties that I imagined would go on forever, year after year. One endless, hot and stuffy car trip (he never did get A/C), following the gentle bends of the cartolina-blue coastline; papà proudly pointing out local points of interest.
Pit stops for coffee, granitas or gelato at small seaside towns punctuated by brightly coloured parasols arranged in perfect formation on the sand.
After Pilates, I went to a surprise birthday lunch for a best friend’s mother. A beautiful celebration of life, family and friendship, there were vases of spring daffodils dotted down the long, festive table; bubbles; a chocolate and salted caramel cake made by her granddaughter and unplanned speeches giving thanks for loved ones present, and those ever-present in memory.
Hearing Mediterraneo that morning helped me to remember my papà, on his birthday, just as he would have wanted me to—before the visits to intensive care at Genoa Hospital and his home, when he was painfully poorly and unbearably weak and I just wanted to hold onto him and not let go.
Isn’t music extraordinary in the way it can be a time machine? How it can capture a time, a person, a moment, an era?
This week, it helped me to picture him as he truly was and how I trust he will, one day, be again: agile, crazy, full of energy and life.
Te amo, papà.
A few things I’ve loved this week
This orchestral cover, released today, of Cyndi Lauper’s Time After Time by Eva Cassidy with the London Symphony Orchestra. Mesmerising, and so peaceful.
These beautiful words on motherhood by author
who writes here on Substack, which she wrote in a feature for:
God helped me unfurl my fingers and further release the work of their safety, their healing, and their joy into the care of divine love. It’s strange how a wound can teach us to trust, how it births courage in us.
—Amber Haines
With thanks to
at here on Substack, too, for originally linking to Amber's piece.Attending a sixth form school music recital one evening, and watching teens with so much talent stand before the assembled family and friends and play, sing and perform with all their hearts. One girl, hands clasped, found her inner Eliza as she sang Burn from Hamilton, gazing out beyond us at a spot in the distance, like she meant every word. Perhaps the most moving part of all was witnessing the way that the students supported one another, dancing in their seats as their friends played drums, piano, clarinet, violin … Applauding the loudest.
With much love and, in the words of one crazy Italian pop star, "Avanti, amici”.
Forward, friends.
p.s.: here’s the music video for Mediterraneo! If you even slightly love Italy, black and white photography or cinema, I think you might love this a lot.
This is beautiful Jenni, you always take us with you in your writing which is truly special, sharing life and love. 😌 xx
Jen, this is quite simply beautiful and so lovely I've read it several times already. Your words resonate so much and I love the stunning poetical Italian of Mediterraneo, which I've added to my playlist to listen to whilst writing my latest book! It's got to be done :) Thank you, thank you for this piece, which feels like a gift, a warm hug today especially when things have been tough. It portrays such a wonderful snapshot of what your Papa must have been like and I reckon he must be up there dancing for sure xx