You use intellectual vocabulary in your imaginative writing.  I’m not the best with words.  I never have been.  Most of the time I’m at a loss for them.  But when I feel strongly about something, I feel it with all of my being.  I can hear a piece of music or look at a piece of artwork and understand what the artist is trying to communicate.  Without words.  By sight.  By sound.  By touch.  Sense association.

I didn’t speak until I was three years old.  I was well aware of everything around me, I knew what I wanted, I just didn’t speak.  I’ve had a repressed voice most of my life.  Not being honest with my sexuality growing up played a large role in my silence.  My cover.  One of our family doctors told me once that the repressed words that I’ve always wanted to say are a key factor in why I have acid reflux recurrences.  I’m still searching for my voice.  I have my voice when I want to sing.  I can sing anything you put in front of me.  I can find my way in, sense what the composer is trying to communicate, and do my best to do justice to the song.  But it can’t be just about feeling anymore.  I need my thoughts to be heard.  I need to begin to communicate my opinions more.  Because I do have them.  I just need to trust that they are valid and worth saying.  Not be afraid to sound foolish.  Take the risk of disagreement or being called ignorant, and not be afraid to say, “I actually don’t know.  Could you explain it to me?”

My family consists of two teams.  We have my Mom and my brother Rick who are the talkers.  They argue, they always have a story to tell, and always need to be the first to tell it.  Always a competition.  The other team?  Me and my Dad.  We’re the listeners.  We’re the ones who take it all in, sense what the vibe of the room is, and take our time with what we want to say.  We have an unspoken understanding of one another that nobody else in my family gets.

So I’m growing.  I’m learning.  I’m 22 and nowhere near perfect.  I never want to try to be because there’s so much beauty in the imperfections.  It’s what makes us human.  I’ve come a long way from where I used to be.  I swear, if you could feel what I feel from a soulful song, or a heartfelt kiss, or a friendly hug, or a smell that catches me off guard…  My muscle memory has a way of storing things that I don’t even realize are being stored.  Hyper sensitivity.

I used to be all or nothing.  Either your committed or you’re not.  Black or white.  But I’m learning to love living in the inbetween more.  The greys.  The uncertainties.  Trusting that living in this moment is enough.  Not worrying about the future as much as I used to because most of the time it’s out of our hands.  What is meant to happen will happen.  We have choices, we make decisions and there are outcomes.  It would be the blind leading the blind to think we truly know what the outcome will be before actually beginning the task.

I think I haven’t been able to sleep because you’ve awakened my mind.  Stirred something in me and that keeps me lying awake at night not knowing how to express what I feel because I sometimes allow my ego to say “You’re not good enough” of a writer, an inventor, a lyricist, etc.  Letting the old voices of my subconscious creep in and allow me to feel inadequate.  I let myself grow stale over the years.  I let the dust pile on and led myself to believe that I was mediocre posing as exceptional.  All I needed was a beautiful boy with an incredible heart and mind to make me see that I have plenty to offer.  I just offer it in different ways, as we all do.  We excel at different things at separate paces, and are continually learning about ourselves and how we function in society.  I have a good heart; I care deeply about the ones I love, I’m supportive, and I’m an incredible listener.

Hi.  I’m Nick.  I have a lot to say.  I just enjoy being quiet sometimes.

“If you can read, you can cook!”  This was a phrase used by my Grandma Scannicchio her entire life.  She was my Mom’s Mom and she was my rock growing up.  She’s been on my mind a lot lately, even though she’s been gone for quite a few years.  I think it’s because of the “Are You Afraid of the Dark” DVDs I found in my movie collection that my brother burned for me a few years ago.  I’ll explain a little later.

You know how there’s always that one person in your family that you feel the closest to?  Well, that was my Grandma Scannicchio.  Although, she wasn’t “Grandma” to me.  She was “Gram.”  She was such an incredible cook.  She made the best gravy that to this day no restaurant or cook will ever be able to top.  You may be thinking that I’m talking about gravy for turkey , but oh no, I’m talkin’ about tomato sauce.  We Italians call it gravy.  Yeah, we’re cool like that.

She was about the height I am now: 5’8”.  But when I was younger, she was like a big teddy bear that I always wanted to surprise with a hug.  She was a little overweight and had the arms or a body builder because she made her own homemade pasta.  She had beautiful wavy black hair that over time became prominently gray.  My Mom tells me that I have her nose; a kind of bulkier shape to it, with a slight bump near the top.  Yet, the bump was more useful to her, holding up the gold-rimmed glasses she wore.  I find it funny that there isn’t a time where I can remember Gram without glasses.

When I was younger, I slept over at Gram’s just about every weekend.  I would pack my bags and walk to their condo.  Sleeping over was so easy because she and my Grandpa lived only a few blocks from my house.  The walk over would take no time at all.  As I would make my way up the solid black driveway leading to the back parking lot, I would hear the squeak of Gram’s outdoor rocking chair up on the second floor balcony.  I’d look up and see her sitting there so peacefully, like an angel, just staring up at the cloudless Chicago sky.

“Hey, Gram!” I’d yell up to her.  She’d then come to her senses and peer over the balcony down at me with a wide smile.  “Hey Nicky, get up here!  I have the gravy on the stove and you need to pick the pasta for the night!” she’d yell back.

I’d go in through the back entrance and wait to hear the loud buzz through the intercom to unlock the door.  As I’d run up the stairs, the poignant smell of tomato sauce would be floating all the way down from their apartment.  Usually I’d get to the door before Gram or Gramps had gotten there, so I would be waiting with a grin right when it opened.  I would be greeted with a hug by Gram whose scent was of parsley, garlic and fresh tomatoes.  “Alright, Nick! Bring your bag in the T.V. room, and grab a Crush from the pantry!”

From there I’d run to the T.V. room, set my things down, kick off my shoes and make my way into the kitchen.  I was always the one with the job of filling the cups with ice and water.  I’d grab three cups and fill all of them with ice.  I’d pour water in two, but none in the third because it was for my favorite pop, orange Crush that they had a full stock of in the pantry.  I’d take my seat and Gram would take everyone’s plate, filling it with scoopfuls of Rigatoni pasta, and plop on a couple meatballs or sausage.

After I had been excused, I would go into the T.V. room and take out my tub of legos that had ended up permanently staying there since I slept over so much.  After about an hour, Gram would bring in some Butter Lover’s popcorn and sit down on one of the couches to find a movie for us to watch.  If something good was found on T.V., then that kept us occupied for the rest of the night.  If nothing good was on, then we’d end up playing cards.  From “Uno” to “War,” we would play an endless amount of games at the kitchen table.

There was one thing between Gram and I that to this day is very special to me.  When I was younger, I loved the show “Are You Afraid of the Dark.”  It would come on at 4:00PM, and usually I’d be coming home from school right when it was ending.  She taped every episode for me, and I’d watch them when I slept over on the weekends.  I still have the VHS tapes in our family movie drawer and my brother burned me every season on DVD as a gift for Christmas a few years ago.  I don’t even think it’s that great of a show now, but I watch a few episodes every now and then because it reminds me of so many good memories with her.

My Gram died 7 years ago from cancer.  When I first found out, I made sure to visit her every chance I could get.  I watched her change through every visit; losing so much weight and all of her beautiful, wavy hair from the chemotherapy.  But what amazes me to this day was that through it all, she never once complained.  She got stuck with hundreds of needles for tests, had chemotherapy a numerous amount of times, and sometimes couldn’t even get out of bed because she was so achy, but somehow always had a smile on or a positive thing to say. 

When I would be leaving from a visit she would grin at me and say, “We’ll have another sleepover soon, Nicky.”

“I love you Gram.  See you soon.”  I always did come back.

Gram passed only two days after Christmas.  Looking back on it, I’m so blessed to have had the time that I did with her, especially with her living so close to me growing up.  But there are so many times that I wish I could walk over to the condo and see her smiling at me from the balcony.  I’ll never forget the smell of her gravy to this day, even if I’m nowhere near a kitchen.

“If you can read, you can cook,” she would always say.  It’s true.  Cooking isn’t that hard.  When you put the time and effort in, you end up with an unforgettable meal.  It goes the same for relationships.  If you don’t put the time and effort in, you may lose out on the best memories of your life.  I love you, Gram.

The time will come 
when, with elation 
you will greet yourself arriving 
at your own door, in your own mirror 
and each will smile at the other’s welcome, 
and say, sit here. Eat. 
You will love again the stranger who was yourself. 
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart 
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you 
all your life, whom you ignored 
for another, who knows you by heart. 
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, 
the photographs, the desperate notes, 
peel your own image from the mirror. 
Sit. Feast on your life.

It is I who must begin.
Once I begin, once I try —
here and now,
right where I am,
not excusing myself
by saying things
would be easier elsewhere,
without grand speeches and
ostentatious gestures,
but all the more persistently
— to live in harmony
with the “voice of Being,” as I
understand it within myself
— as soon as I begin that,
I suddenly discover,
to my surprise, that
I am neither the only one,
nor the first,
nor the most important one
to have set out
upon that road. 

Whether all is really lost
or not depends entirely on
whether or not I am lost.