Free Blessed are the Dead by Kristi Belcamino

warm body beside me, someone who understands and can comfort me. But there is nobody.
    A FTER THE 11:30 Mass at Saints Peter and Paul Church, I head toward wine country just south of the cities where I work. A cloudless indigo sky seems to go on forever. Sun-­soaked golden hills flank both sides of the freeway. I exit in Livermore and pass the rolling slopes of a vineyard before I pull into the familiar driveway. My sadness and loneliness start to dissipate, and I’m instantly at peace when I spot my grandmother’s sprawling ranch house. The circle driveway, lined with fruit trees, is already crowded with cars. Purple bougainvillea spills out from massive deep blue pots.
    I walk around the side of the house, following a small cobblestone path that leads into the backyard where a giant plank-­wood table sits under the grape arbor. It can seat fourteen and yet, every Sunday the uncles have to set up folding tables on the patio to accommodate the crowd. Our family grows bigger every year as my brothers and cousins have more babies.
    One of my uncles is staffing the grill, turning Italian sausages this way and that. The scent mingles with the fragrant smell of marinara sauce wafting from the house. The kids are running along packed-­dirt paths that weave in and out of a large garden.
    When I enter the house, my mom gives me a hug as if I haven’t seen her for years.
    She has her hair pulled back in a ponytail and looks forty not sixty. She has on cream-­colored slacks, black kitten heels, and a sleek, black blouse. She’s never remarried, spending her days running her flower shop and raising three kids alone. Although men often approached her, she didn’t date. It was only after we kids moved out that she began dating another widower, whom she has known since childhood. He’s the one who finally brought the glow back to my mother’s face and erased a bit of the sadness around her eyes.
    My grandmother’s in front of the stove, busy stirring this and mixing that. She half turns and gives me a quick, dry peck on the cheek. “ Mia cara. ”
    Nana is one of my favorite ­people in the whole world. She was the one who defended me when I went through my grunge phase—­donning combat boots, black clothing, and dyeing my hair bright purple. When my mother and brothers were dismayed by my new “look,” Nana just calmly said with a shrug, “ Che bella ragazza ”—­What a beautiful girl.
    I break off a piece of bread from a loaf that is still warm from the oven and dip it into the huge pot of simmering sauce, a tradition that nearly every Italian-­American child grows up savoring. My grandmother puts her arm around my waist and grins as I taste the sauce, closing my eyes, saying, “Mmmm. Perfecto. ”
    Later, my mother comes and finds me alone in the formal living room looking at the picture of Caterina. My grandmother has placed a statue of the Virgin Mary and a small light blue candle on the shelf beside the photograph as if it were a shrine. Caterina’s big brown eyes are full of mirth, and her curly hair frames her face in ringlets. She is wearing a pink-­and-­green polka-­dot dress and holding a big spoonful of chocolate frosting that she is about to stick in her mouth. On that day, we were helping Nana make a birthday cake for my father, but ended up with more of the frosting on our faces than on the cake.
    My mother puts her arm around my shoulders, bringing me back to the present. We smile at each other.
    â€œDarling, how come you’ve been avoiding my calls? What’s going on? I’ve been worried.”
    I shrug and fight back tears. Die before cry.
    â€œI read the paper, you know,” she says. “I see that you’re covering the story about that little girl. Do you really think that’s a good idea? I think it’s too much for you. Maybe you should tell your boss you don’t want to do