Following a Cloud of Thoughts

When she was young, the world was only as big as the sky above her. And on top of the old red dog house, she'd count the stars at night and think to herself that clouds were made up of all the souls that went to heaven. And it made her feel better to think of her grandfather as a cloud, floating high above with a watchful and loving eye.



She always hoped she'd make him proud, the grandfather that existed in her mind who became perfection, because he wasn't there to prove her wrong. His death in the youngest years of her life had immortalized him, not as an ordinary man but as a combination of all things wonderful. And so she strove to please his memory.



She learned at her grandmother's knee the old ways of doing things, spending most every weekend at her Nani's when she should have been next door at her father's. And Nani spoiled her rotten, not with gifts but with stories told over bowls of soup heaping with tubettini topped with Romano cheese. And at night they would watch TV together, sometimes staying up late enough to watch Johnny Carson before going to bed where she would cuddle up close to her grandmother's side, comforted by the sound of her snores and the wall behind her.

And in the morning, they would watch the Catholic mass on TV, since it was too hard for Grandma to go in person. And after mass, they'd watch WWF Wrestling because Grandma had a soft spot for Hulk Hogan and couldn't stand the little man with the microphone that always seemed to be jumping around with "ants in his pants" as Grandma would say.

I remember well the glint in her eye when she would watch, and the sly smile that would sometimes set on her face when no one was looking. And I remember thinking how lucky I was, because I was the only person who really knew that Grandma wasn't as old as everyone else thought she was. No. I remember thinking that she was just like me, full of mischief that no one ever really knew about.