Poppy.

My Poppy died. It makes my stomach hurt to think about.

I have a very vivid memory of him sitting on our couch in our Chalmette home, keeping me entranced merely by wiggling his fingers. I was fascinated by the huge, blue-and-green veins that rippled every time he moved his phalanges. He told me they were worms, buried beneath his skin. I believed him.

He used to wear these t-shirts that said "CAPITAL GYMNASTICS." He had them in probably every primary color, and he had absolutely no qualms about wearing them consecutively.

He and my Nonna had a fifty-acre blueberry farm in Gumpond, Mississippi for several years--it's where their ashes will be comingled and scattered, after Nonna dies--and Poppy was the one to take me on my first blueberry-picking trip. He watched me put twice as many berries into my mouth as into my bucket and soberly informed me that my stool (his actual word) would be black from all the berries. He was right.

Once, he allowed Lauren, my older sister, and me to accompany him on an expedition one frosty morning to dig potatoes out of the ground that he'd planted. It was bitterly cold, and I didn't last more than five minutes. Lauren toughed it out a bit longer, if only to lord it over me later, but I retreated into the house and allowed Nonna to fuss over my ungloved hands with a warm washcloth and cocoa butter. I was amazed that not even the weather could faze Poppy.

He used to let me ride in his lap while he drove the tractor, too. And he'd put up a big fuss whenever Nonna would corner him with the electric razor so that she could trim his ear-hair. And he never got upset with me when I'd track that orange clay-mud into their house, even after Nonna had warned me to take off my shoes at the door.

He always referred to Nonna as "Mrs. Rizzuto." I liked that.

My aunt asked my sisters and me, as well as the rest of the grandchildren, if we'd like to say anything at his service. I politely begged off, thinking only of my intense fear of public speaking, but I encouraged Lauren and my older cousin--my aunt's daughter--to speak. My cousin suggested that she and Lauren read something together, but Lauren was doubtful that she could have control over her emotions throughout a speech. My cousin tried to ply her by announcing that she'd found the perfect Dr. Seuss quote to end with, but this only further deterred Lauren from accepting.

"Dr. Seuss?" she wondered aloud to me. "I don't really know if that's the way to go." After looking thoughtful for a moment, she said, "Unless it's 'Oh, the places you'll go!' Because that is actually inappropriately appropriate. Or maybe...'I do not like it in a box'...?" She looked over at me mischieveously, and we both dissolved into giggles. (We're Rizzuto sisters. This is how we cope. And my cousin actually ended her very heartfelt speech with a perfectly appropriate quote. From the good doctor.)

I'm twenty-three years old, and I know that saying goodbye to people I love because of death is something that I am very lucky not to have had to deal with frequently up until now. And I know that it will only happen more frequently from here on out. But that doesn't necessarily make saying goodbye to my Poppy any easier. Especially since I didn't get to say goodbye, I guess.

I hope that he knows how very, very much he is loved. I wish this more than I have wished a lot of things in a very long time.