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The final bell rings, a signal another day of learning is over. I skip along the cobblestones passing old stone buildings, without a care in the word. At the end of road rests my house, where I open the front door. Darkness engulfs me as I weave through belted black pants, skirts and bulky purses, guests packed into the living room like sardines. Hands ruffle my hair, whispering my grandmother’s name. And I don’t like it, not one bit.

“Where’s Nonna?” I ask.

“Gone,” the adults say.

They ask if I understand. I nod, knowing they’re wrong. Nonna takes care of me while mom and dad are overseas. We play tea-party each day after school. How can Nonna’s finger sandwiches be out on the table if she’s not here to make them?

I scan the crowd, tear-stained cheeks

Cries of riposa in pace,

There’s Hugo and Valentina from next door, Nera who own the bakery,

Dante, the man across the street who always leaves his house at night, and who’s missing a pinkie finger for refusing to pay off a debt. I may be seven but I’m not stupid.

“See?” I point. “No crusts.”

Nonna cuts them off for me. Egg salad hers, roast beef mine. I push through the crowd to the kitchen and sure enough there’s another mound of sandwiches on a silver platter on the counter. I laugh out loud, relieved.

Nonna! Why so many?

Where are you? Is this a new game? A game of hide and seek?

I race upstairs to find Nonna’s teeth on the bathroom counter. She’d never leave the house without them. Dresses fill her bedroom closet, shoes lined underneath. A single grey hair lies on the pillow, the sheets a tangled mess. The window is closed. It’s hot, airless.

That’s when it hits me.

Nonna passed today
gone, gone, gone.

I fall to my knees, sobbing out ever last ounce of pain. There’s nothing more to say

But why not use the word died in the first place?

If it’s too hard or too scary, then how about Nonna is with Noona now, together again, above.

After changing I return to the guests, sweaty in my starched party dress, the strand of hair wrapped tight around my finger, her patent leather shoes clomping down the stairs.


Mournful eyes, faces damp with sympathy
They smile and tell me I am brave,
I smile back, saddened by my loss yet knowing
Nonna will be a part of me forever.


(Funeral) Sandwiches was inspired by a call from The Hooghly Review. In early 2024, they requested photographic submissions of murals, street arts and graffiti from around the world. Each offers a window into community. Once the photos were curated, they requested submissions inspired by the breathtaking photos.

(Funeral) Sandwiches speaks to the beautiful mural Skulls, which is in Naples, Italy. It was photographed by Maria Mocerino. The Hooghly Review’s publication entitled ‘Murals’ was released late December 2024. Thanks to the editorial team, and Francois Bereaud for including me in this special edition.

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