Nikos

July 2043

I watch from the window. The sound of the kid’s laughter and piercing screams is a familiar summer song. My brothers and sister and I were in our thirties when the pool was put in, but we made memories there too. Jenny and I in particular. What a day that was. Once in a while I dream of her standing on the rock, hair lifting in the breeze. In my dream we’re both still young.

Now there’s enough children in the Santini family to start two water polo teams. It makes me laugh to see Max’s mischievous twins dunking their cousins. They remind me of him when he was a boy.

He and Gregory have joined their children in the pool, and even though they’re in their forties, for the afternoon they’re just one of the kids. God, I remember the day Max was born and the day he lost his mother. Feels like a thousand hills and valleys ago.

Nash’s sixteen-year-old granddaughter sits, legs dangling in the water, petting her beloved collie who stands beside her. She’s got a lot of Nash in her. How many dogs and cats has our family loved over the years?

The year OG died, Farrah, Nash and Max got my parents’ permission to plant multi-colored rose bushes by the big Oak. That’s where they scattered the ashes of their furry friend. Years later Fluffy joined him. And now the ashes of all the beloved animals find their resting place here, under the colorful blossoming roses next to the towering Oak tree. A painted tile plaque standing tall amidst the bushes reads, The Rainbow Bridge…Enter Here.

Left of the pool, Nash and Farrah lay on lounge chairs talking with Kate and Christos. They’re laughing so hard about something, Kate’s holding her side. I’m chuckling watching. I never forget it was Kate who led me to my greatest career success. Teaching dance to young performing arts students has been the most rewarding part of my professional life. Thankfully her connections were what made it happen.

Now at this age my body’s tired. I had to face that last year when I retired. Fifty-five is still young enough in most careers. Dance is an exception.

How can it be that time moved past us so swiftly? Christos is on Medicare for Christ sake and his hair’s almost completely white like our father’s. I’m one to talk. Mine has grown grayer by the month, temples and beard heavy on the salt light on the pepper already.

It’s ironic how the kids seem to be drawn to Kate and my brother. They’re the only ones who chose to remain happily childless. So, we made them godparents for four of the next generation of Santinis, and the kids made them favorites.

God knows we all respect their decision. It’s hard being a parent. The best and most challenging experience of your life. But I wouldn’t give up my choice for anything. My children have molded me into a better man and it’s unimaginable to think of life without them.

Who knew Jenny and I’d be the ones to have five? The first time I held my first son in my arms I cried. I laugh now a little with the thought. Our two oldest boys are coming later, but James, Audrey and Samanthe are here already to celebrate their grandparents’ 70^th anniversary.

I watch them, sitting under an umbrella laughing and talking. It still throws me to see Audrey’s pregnant belly. When I was young, the idea of being a father never entered my mind, let alone a grandfather.

Now we’re coming up on our twenty-fourth anniversary. Jenny’s still beautiful at forty-nine, and we feel the same way we felt back then. Lovers forever. I remember thinking thirty would be the end of fun. How wrong I was. It was just the beginning.

A hand rests on my shoulder.

“Honey, I need your help. Can you take your dad to his chair outside?”

Turning to face her, she gets a kiss on the lips before I answer. “Sure. We ready to eat?”

“Almost. Foods about to be put on the table. I’m gonna pour the drinks now,” she says holding up the bottle of wine. “Go. He’s in the kitchen with your mother.”

She walks through the open doors and I head for the kitchen.

It’s buzzing with the cooks and their helpers. Dion, Alexander, Joseph, Robert and Lana stand making last-minute preparations. It strikes me that they’re all right around the age my parents were when I met Jenny. You blink and it’s twenty-five years later.

To the right I see my parents. Sophia at her breakfast table, and Valentino in his wheelchair across from her.

“Nikos! Grab me a cloth napkin,” she calls.

The voice is weaker, the hair still long but silver, and her eyes a little clouded. But Sophia Santini is beautiful to us. Beneath the ninety-three-year-old shell lives a still sharp woman. A few of us have remarked she’s sharper than we are.

But it’s my father who pulls the heartstrings. Age is hard on everybody, but he falls from a greater height. The once strong bull of a man who sang loud and powerfully at the drop of a hat is fading.

We’ve tried to deny it, especially to my mother who doesn’t need anybody to tell her what she knows best. Wheelchair-bound for the last six months and thinner by the day, his age is finally having the last word.

Not a day goes by that he doesn’t have visitors. His children or grandchildren, even his great-grandchildren who don’t understand just how different he was as a young man. They only know Papa, the old man who gives them candy bars and cookies from his deep sweater pockets.

I bring my mother the napkin and she reaches across and wipes her husband’s mouth, where crumbs of his last bite lingered. A little wink from him is his thanks.

“Ready to go outside, Dad?”

He looks to my mother for I’m not sure what. Approval? Permission? Confirmation that she’s coming too? All of the above maybe.

“Okay. Let’s go celebrate,” he says when my mother nods.

“I’m right behind you. Come on everyone.” My mother waves the way and gets up carefully, finding her balance before she takes a step.

As we move through the kitchen to the family room and outside, I’m touched by the fact that time hasn’t changed this home. It looks remarkably like it did when I was thirty. Little that holds important memories has changed. The dining table in the house is the very same one we gathered around when we were young. The wooden table outside under the loggia is the one I jumped off that fateful day. Touchstones.

The fire pit burns bright in the August night. Around it sits my parents, my brothers and sister and our spouses. Behind us our own children work to clear the dinner dishes, leaving the “old farts” as I like to call my older brothers and sister to enjoy our coffees. I’m still the baby of the family after all, and have to live up to my nickname. The small kids are tucked in beds on the second floor, and their parents are in the house doing clean-up detail.

It doesn’t escape any of us that it’s a poignant scene, beautiful and sad all mixed together with soft moonlight and tender love.

“Are you warm enough, Valentino?” my mother says, tucking the lap blanket around his legs.

He grasps her hand. “Yes, Bella mio. Everything’s fine.”

She scoots her chair closer so she can stay holding his hand. He looks up and smiles at us, moving his gaze around the wide circle of family. A smile brightens his timeworn face.

“Mi familia,” he says softly.

Turning toward my mother something soundless passes between them, words that needn’t be spoken aloud. Two people who because they love hear music even in the silence. Then he starts singing softly. It’s their love song, heard countless times in seventy years. But this rendition must be the most meaningful. It’s difficult for him to get the proper breath, to reach the notes heights, to remember every word. But the meaning and intention has never been so clear.

“Non Dementica, don’t forget you are...”

“My darling,” Sophia sings.

When his words start to falter, Nash joins in. Then Christos, Alexander, me, Dion and Lana. Our voices rise strong, interrupted only by the occasional catch in our throats.

My mother purses her lips tight, holding back her emotions as she watches her children. A smile lifts the corners of Valentino’s mouth and tears glisten in his tired eyes. He picks up his Sophia’s hand and kisses it.

All their life they’ve led the way for us. How to love, how to parent and now how to grow old with grace, singing our love songs to the end of our stories.