Il Giorno dei Santi con papa' - All Saints' Day with my father

Today, on this first gray day of November here in Massachusetts, a beautiful photo of my father has appeared on my screen. Whether it is a miracle, as my father would probably believe, or a coincidence as others would say, this morning my dad popped out of the after-world just to remind me of our last walk together in our Alps.

On our way to our family's grave 

This photo records the last time I walked with my father on my dear Italian mountains, four years ago, on our way to our family tomb. The Giorno dei Santi (All Saints' Day) was  the most important day of the year for my father. 

In late October, our heaters would turn on suddenly after the appearance of the morning mist, together with the aroma of the roasted chestnuts, mixed with the scent of the rain and of the wet rust-colored leaves, in the shiny wet streets of Turin. I remember being seated in the back of our small red Fiat, waiting for my mother to collect the precious orange and yellow crisantemi (chrysanthemums), which in Italy are only seen in the cemeteries, for our families' graves, that she had always ordered in advance. I remember being in the car waiting, watching rain drops race on the car window. I was looking at each drop, while I was imagining they were tears, one of the tears we were supposed to spill for our loved ones. I was sad but I was trying to question the reasons for my sadness and couldn't reveal what they were. 

When All Saints Day was approaching, regardless of our illnesses, studies, or work commitments, there was no way my parents would not make the trek to put flowers on our family graves on All Saints' Day. We just simply had to go. 

Every year, the same ritual. My dad would silently drive us early in the morning to our mountains, with the intense aroma of the precious crisantemi filling our car. While my father was driving, we were either being silent or he would bring up memories of family and friends who were no longer alive. Together we shared memories of my sweet grandmother, who used to take care of me, and of other loved ones I never met. He was reminding me every year of the efforts he made to build a small mausoleum for his family with extra space for me, my future husband and children. Then at some point, while he was driving us around the switchbacks up the mountains, he would invariably ask the dreaded question: "Enrica, are you going to bring flowers to my tomb when I am dead? Promise you will." Short after that, he would say "Svegliati, siamo arrivati!" (Wake up, we are are!).

The three of us would spend a bit of time at the family tomb to get it ready for the afternoon ceremony. To most people attending this yearly tradition, it was  important to make sure that their family graves were clean and adorned with fresh flowers. To my parents this entailed a bit more. In the morning, my parents would spend time, which to me as a child always felt a lot, trimming the plants outside, cleaning up the old dry flowers and the layers of dust collected inside, removing spiders from the ceiling, and polishing the glass and brass. I often thought they felt they had to make the grave immaculate before they were entitled to place new flowers in front of our loved ones, always a couple of vases on the left hand side and another couple on the right hand side of the tomb. My father was always very keen that we would follow this rule in the positioning of the vases, in order to honor the memories of each person.

Then we would go dig out from the back of the cemetery's dark utility room a couple of watering cans to fill at the nearby well - an operation which often involved all of us. The people of the valley would gather around the well and try pulling the very stiff lever a few times until somebody would suddenly blurt with excitement "Venite, esce acqua!" (Come here, there is water coming out!). It was there, at the well in front of the cemetery, that the conversation would drift from the problem of not getting water from the well into a chat about those who were still alive and of the ones who had died - a chat which would often make us feel thankful for what we had.

After lunch and a little siesta, we were always back in front of our family tomb, waiting for the priest to turn up and start the ceremony. I would watch the cemetery filling up with more and more people. In the final five or ten minutes before the beginning of the function, I would usually only hear the steps of the newcomers approaching, the running of a couple of agitated children, or someone quietly making a comment  about one more person was no longer alive.

Then the priest would arrive, at 3:25 on the dot. After the priest's blessing of the loved ones, still positioned in front of each of our graves, we would all pray together for a few minutes. Then I would say (or think): "Done! It's over". Strange, everything was over in such a short time. The exit of the priest also meant that we were free to move, play and chat. Running around and playing with the snow collected by the graves was my favorite part as a child. Later, I became fond of going to say hello to the people we knew (or kind of knew). There are people I only ever met once a year on that occasion. If at the beginning I couldn't see a point of this ritual, I later got used to the tradition of remembering loved ones lost and of seeing people growing up, having kids, aging, with all the problems and gossip I heard them discuss, and finally dying themselves. At some point, it all started making sense in my mind. All Saints' Day was an important day for us to think, to ponder, to be thankful for what we have and, above all, to hope for better lives.

After leaving the cemetery, we would usually have a cup of tea and biscotti with close friends, perhaps as a way to cheer ourselves up. Those were often opportunities to play with other kids as a child or to join discussions about life and death when I was a little older, until life brought me outside Italy and it was no longer possible for to be there every year on November 1st. My absenses made my father very sad for years. And the dreaded question in the car changed into "who is gonna come to take care of our family tomb when your mother and I are dead?".

But today my father's photo and the photo below brought me right back into the meaning and feeling of this important tradition in my culture. My mother's smartphone allowed me to be there, looking at my family tomb, to say hello to the Priest and to a couple of people my father knew, still alive and still there on All Saints' Day, to pray for our loved ones.

My family's edicola funeraria (small mausoleum)

I am sure my father is happy that today I was spiritually there and that All Saints' Day will not be forgotten in my family.