What a Difference a Year Makes…Not So Much

One year ago today, at 9:45AM, my father died. If you know me, then you know I don’t have patience for bathing my father’s death in euphemisms. I will never say “he passed away,” “moved on,” “is now with God,” “is at rest,” or “is in a better place.” He is dead. He is dead because one year ago, a shitty disease killed him. My mind will never make peace with that fact…at least I hope it never does. I have nothing to say here but I did want to acknowledge the anniversary. I was honored to have written his eulogy and that is all I have to offer you today.

Hello, as I am sure you all know, I am Donato Leone Jr. I am here to say a few words about my father, Donato Leone Sr. I am not going to talk about how cute my father’s accent was or how disappointed he was with me when he learned I was a lefty. I promise I wont embarrass him by mentioning that he was so resourceful he would cut some scrap pieces of rug into the shape of a foot and stick it in his boot for extra cushioning when his boots would start to break down. I do not have stories about the day he bought me a bike in the second grade, my best Christmas ever in the fourth grade or even the first, and last time, he brought me fishing in the fifth grade. That is not how I remember my dad. Please allow me just five minutes of your time to share just a few words with you.

Today, I smile

Today, I smile because today he is free. He is free from the relentlessly-tightening grip of the shackles that bound him. He is free from the ever-increasing weight of those chains handed to him just 13 short months ago….a million yesterdays ago. Today, I smile because he no longer struggles for each precious breath. He no longer marches, unwillingly to the merciless drumbeat of ALS. Today, I smile because I know my father…Dona, Papa, has left us in peace, with his dignity intact and surrounded by those who love him. Today I smile because we can now go on to the business of remembering the good moments and forgetting about the horrors of the last 13 months. I want to share with you just one such moment: I watched him get out of the car as I watched him do it a million times before. The small window on the second floor was one of the few windows overlooking the driveway. I watched the door open on the green Pontiac Tempest slowly open. Even more slowly, my dad would swing his legs out and there he remained. His hands resting on both his knees. Staring ahead of him; staring beyond the house just a few feet away. Staring beyond Brighton. Perhaps he was looking back in time; back to a time that was both easier and more difficult. Here, in America, he had an opportunity, a future, a chance to create the life that he dreamed. He also had his beautiful bride. In Italy, he had everything else. His connections to his past, his family, his support system, his language and his culture. The view of the top of his head never changed over the years, except for the graying and the receding. His hair was made even grayer by the ever-present cement dust he brought home from the construction sites; the only remnant of his job that he brought home with him. I remember he could be patted like a dirty pillow and dust would envelope him; never diminishing no matter how many times you hit. It was like the dust was coming from inside him. I would see my dad lift himself with a single groan; using his hands to unbend his knees. The years passed and that pause would get longer and the groan a little louder. You would think the first stop would be the kitchen table for dinner. But not with my dad. He would immediately go into the basement where he had the courtesy to install a shower a few years before. That way, he could wash off the residue of the construction site. When he came up, he almost always wore a clean pair of Dickies and a sleeveless tanktop tshirt. He still had dust on his body, but this time it was the clean smell of baby powder. There is no way to forget that smell because he wore it every day of his life. It was the smell of clean…talc dust replacing cement dust. That is how I remember my father. He was not a friend; he was a father. He was a father who got up at 4AM everyday; drank instant coffee, went to work building walls, came home exhausted, ignored blackened fingernails wrapped in electrical tape, watched candlepin bowling and fell asleep at the kitchen table. Little did he know that with those same calloused hands that he used to lay bricks, he was also paving the way for his family to live an easier life in America. When I would check in on my dad over the last 13 months, and ask the stupidest question ever: “How are you today, Papa?”, he would look at me, smile and give me the thumps up. This never changed until a couple of weeks ago, when the disease made it impossible to move his muscles into a smile or even lift his thumb. So today I smile…because I know you would have. Today, I smile because I have no choice. Donato Leone Sr…I miss you already.

I admit that I cannot stop crying right now.