Living in my dad’s house, more than 2 years after his passing, another dreaded day of decluttering. I have found my aversion to getting rid of things he owned, organized, used, wanted to remind himself of to be almost blasphemous. Except now, less.
Today I found a typed manuscript, written by my grandmother, teaching Italian to Americans. In her unbound folios, i found a fragile and broken sheet, placed in an envelope and labeled by my dad. The page was covered with her beautiful, flowing fountain penmanship…”per Benito Mussolini.” Now what could have been the story behind that?