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The evening before my grandfather, “Papa”, passed away, my mother gently informed me that Papa was most likely going to pass away the next morning as a result of his own wishes; his wish was for the doctors at the hospital to remove him from some sort of modern machine that was keeping his carbon dioxide levels low enough to survive.

All I could think about was how amazing Papa was for staring death in the face and preferring to meet his maker than be kept alive on a machine. As a close friend in Portland remarked the next day, after his death, it was a pretty unselfish move on his part to save taxpayers and health insurance devotees thousands of dollars by not extending his life for an undeterminably lengthy time with the help of modern science.

It wasn’t just unselfish, it was characteristic of a man who prided himself on longevity from inner strength and determination – a man who was weak willed in diet and exercise, but strong willed in love, compassion, the study of human nature, and most of all, in exploring the natural world.

On Thursday, June 14th, 2008, at precisely 6:21am pacific standard time, three hours and eleven minutes after Papa’s death, my mother awoke me from a four hour ‘power nap’ (that I’d planned on turning into a full night’s rest), to let me know that Papa was now ‘cooking with the angels.’ But once I heard her shaky voice, saying the words I’d known I’d have to hear someday, but somehow had convinced myself were still further off in the future, despite my inherited strong will and determination, I became extremely weak, my eyes welled up with tears, mucous and phlegm that I didn’t know existed began to bubble and clog their way up and down my throat and nostrils, and my chest began to involuntarily heave as I made a sound that I rarely make; heavy sobbing and bawling.

I lay in bed, trying to picture the healthy Papa I remembered from my youth. The strong, overweight Sicilian frame that scolded me on the cruise ship he took me on for staying out well past curfew, even though it was in order to secure my first real, passionate kiss with a girl (thanks again, Papa!).

I tried to flip my mind’s Rolodex to the powerful image of his gargantuan hands—the powerful beasts that somehow turned flour, sugar, and dough into mystically delicious baked goods.

I pressed my mind, trying to conjure the image of his special, soft twinkling eyes that mirrored his delighted, curious soul whenever he spoke about the thousands of friends he’d made, all across the world.

Next, I attempted to picture his cartoon-esque large feet, larger than my own so-called ‘clown shoes’ (thanks again, Papa!), the feet that worked for ninety-one years to support his six foot long body, the same body that somehow commanded him to wear all of his pants several inches above his belly button – far too high for my generation’s liking.

Still failing to distract my body from its sobbing tantrum, I began to instead try to remember things about him that could make me laugh, like the fact that at a very young age, I thought all of his outfits were funny looking, and that his glasses were the biggest things ever created in the history of mankind.

But I couldn’t really laugh, because I knew that he dressed the way he did as a status symbol, for he was the first man in his family to get a college degree, and out of pride, he took time and care to make sure he didn’t look like some ‘Dego, fresh off the boat.’ Whereas I took time, at a young age, to dress as poor as I could, since poor was the fashion on MTV.

But instead of these colorful, warm memories of Papa, all my mind could offer me was a picture of an accursed email-attached photograph that my brother had sent me three days prior, from his last visit with Papa. In this photograph was not a picture of my big, strong, eternal Papa; instead, it was some hoax—an image of a beaten and tired man, with loose skin surrounding dull, cloudy eyes, making eye contact with some spirit in a far away place.

This image, burned into my mind, and refusing to go away, continued to make my chest heave like an accordion, and my dry, soaking drippy eyes and suddenly constipated lymphoid system couldn’t seem to stop singing the saddest song my body had ever created.

At first, Instead of giving into the experience that is crying, I did the worst thing possible, which was to try and beat my own emotions, and convince myself that crying wasn’t worth the effort. I tried to distract myself, telling myself that it was six in the morning on a Thursday, and my neighbors were still asleep, and I was probably waking them up, and who wants to wake up to the sounds of a twenty five year old man crying, alone, in his studio apartment.

And trying to stop crying is like trying to stop a bullet train with your forearm – it’s impossible. So I finally gave in, and allowed my body to do what my mind was refusing to do – to accept loss, accept defeat, and admit that I would never, ever again be able to hear my Papa’s deep sighs of disbelief at my crass, generation-X sarcastic candor.

I had to admit that I would never hear his barrel laugh at one of his own war stories, involving some punch line that was archaic, and fit for a 1946 USO show, yet magically hilarious, given his electric energy and palpable charisma.

I’d never be scolded for not finding a wife yet, at the ‘old age’ of twenty-five, nor for failing to create his first ever great grandchildren (in all fairness, my brother, who is two years older than me, was clearly supposed to deliver said kids before me).

I’d never be told how perfect I was, at everything, no matter how imperfect I may have actually been.

I’d never be introduced to a room full of eager, expectant seventy-and-above-year-olds as a ‘famous rock star like Elvis’ or a famous writer like [insert some name you’ve never heard of, yet means a lot to someone born in 1915].

I wouldn’t even get the distinct pleasure of yet another personal, handwritten note that began with “I love you” was followed by a three page diatribe on the pain of arthritis, the fact that if I didn’t visit soon my Papa would be dead (keep in mind these letters began when we were invading Iraq for the first time, in 1991), then a quick paragraph asking me how many young ladies I was necking with, followed by a brief recap of how he had courted my grandmother, and his second wife, and the never changing, always tear jerking closure of “You and Sam are the best two grandsons I could ever wish for, and I thank god every day for your life, god bless, all my love, Papa”

My last real conversation with Papa was the best conversation we’ve ever had, and since he’s gone now, I realize how appropriate it was to talk the way we did. I called him the day I found out I was going to be published in a real newspaper for the first time, because I knew it was an important step in my life that he would want me to share with him. Somehow, after ten minutes of completely natural talk, with subjects ranging from politics to dating women to the meaning of life, he asked me if I was going to celebrate Passover with anyone this year. I explained to him that I was going to celebrate the historical aspect of the holiday, but that I didn’t consider myself Jewish, since I had never completed my bar mitzvah, and I therefore consider it an insult to real Jews to call myself a Jew.

Now, It is very important to note here that my mother, Papa’s daughter, converted to Judaism before my birth, partially in an effort to appease her soon to be conservative Jewish-mother-in-law. My mother’s conversion, something of a minor issue to her two Methodist parents proved later on in her life to be an ironic foreshadowing for the event that was my Papa, who was raised a Methodist, converting to Catholicism at the tender age of 81 in order to better smooth out his second marriage.

So you can see that religion is a touchy subject on both sides of my extended family, but not in my immediate family. After spilling the truthful beans of my opinion about religion to my Papa, he gasped deeply into the telephone and said, “Michael! You don’t believe in god?”

I immediately retorted, “Papa, of course I believe in god, I just don’t believe in ascribing to an organized religion – I find them to be dangerous investments that cause overly zealous worshipers to lose sight of their own inner compass.”

Papa sighed, a deep sigh of relief, and said, “That’s the truth, Michael. All that matters is that you realize that you have a heart, a mind, and a soul, and you must pay attention to all three, and never invest too much faith in any one over any of the others. As long as you are in touch with your mind, your soul, and your heart, you will never do wrong, and life will be enjoyable.”

I stood, nearly trembling with elation in the doorway of my apartment. It was as if my Papa had read my mind and told me the exact truth as I’ve discovered it, thus far, in my lifetime. I didn’t know what to say, so I said what came naturally; “Thank you papa, that was so kind of you to say, so truthful, and I couldn’t agree more. I love you so much!”

He returned my sentiment, and we hung up on the phone, having departed from our first, and unfortunately last truly honest and open adult conversation that we ever shared. It was magical, and reminded me of a similar conversation that I’d had with my father after my first year of college – the first time that my father had treated me as an equal, rather than a son. I was so excited that I immediately called my mother to share with her the intimate details of her own father’s views on religion.

I wish that I could call Papa right now, and talk openly about more of the secrets of life, the secrets that are now going to be buried with his body this upcoming Tuesday, In Tampa, Florida, the place that he was born in, and died in. Instead, I’m left with only the twenty-six years of memories and photographs that I’ve saved. But wait, I am also left with the quintessential Sicilian-Provenzano gene that is a stoic, uncompromising, relentless, and stubborn dedication to goal setting and achievement. None of these attributes, to me, are worth the loss of a gentle soul who always kept me focused on my life, my choices, my future, and my responsibility to making myself happy, but given the fact that I don’t really have a choice in this bargain, it’s a pretty damn good legacy to receive.

And so even though I’m sure I’ll cry some more tomorrow, and in the days to come, right now, I’m happy to take what I can get, and I know that my Papa would ask for nothing more, and for nothing less than this from me—except that I someday make myself a grandfather, so that I too can incubate my grandchildren with pure, unwavering, unconditional love and compassion, in return for the right to incessantly complain about my arthritis in between giant bear hugs and powerful, laughter inducing hyperboles about how special and unique my own grandchildren are. God Bless You, Papa.