I don't think I have ever cried at a loved one's funeral, and I have been to many. But recently I have cried with laughter when remembering some clownish antic of my father-in-law, Peter Kostares, dead 30 years. Not long ago, I have laughed like a madman as I walked down Broadway in New York City over some irreverent remark by my father, Francis Xavier, gone 28 years from this earth. I have cried over the loss of my mother Lucy's unconditional support, who passed away 26 years ago. I cry thinking that I could not communicate with my paternal grandmother, Carmela, now gone 54 years, because we spoke different languages before translation technology bridged such a boundary.
I cry a lot, almost always when I am alone, and far from finding myself in the depths of despair, I become overwhelmed with joy, glowing with gratitude for being alive with such remarkable forebears to guide my walk through life. I continue to speak to these decedents, as well as grandfathers Philip and Carmelo, grandmother Elizabeth, uncles Emmanuel, Reno, and Fotios, aunts Katherine, Theresa, Salvina, Josephine, Rita, Katherine, and Maryanne, cousin Mario, friends Danielle, Tony, Tom, Victor, Deborah, Lucille, Ann, and Nancie, former employers Ida, Harry, and Mickey, and many more people whose names would run a dozen more pages.
If you are a writer struggling with something to write about, rely on your decedents. They are a source of rich material. They will never let you down. Talk to them. Ask them questions. Listen to their responses. They are wiser than we will ever be in this lifetime.
