By Monica Giglio
It was the prettiest necklace I’d ever seen. The gold tone chain had a
unique hanging pendant suspended by a tiny fleur-de-lis bracket. The
mirrored oval was framed with gold tone filigree and had a bouquet of
three daisy-like flowers etched deeply into the glass with tiny
gemstones set into the delicate petals. It was breathtaking to me; the
mirror evoking a silvery tone, with the flowers outlined in gold.
I was probably eleven years old when my father unexpectedly presented
this gift to me for no special occasion. I thanked and hugged
him as he helped to clasp the necklace I proudly wore. I told him how
beautiful it was. It was not customary for dad to come home with gifts for
us, and it made me feel special. Impulsively I blurted out a question,
“Where did you get it?”
“It doesn’t matter” he replied.
Years later I realized it wasn’t real gold, and it didn’t matter. Over
time, the chain tarnished and broke and some of the gemstones
disappeared but it didn’t matter. I have held on to it for decades and
recently restrung it on a 14-karat gold chain given to me by my adult
son. When I wear it now, it still garners compliments from random
admirers.
In 2009 when I prepared to say goodbye to my dad, I realized it didn’t
matter that our used cars hadn’t been the most expensive in the
neighborhood. Dad taught us to wash them in the driveway; they were
clean and they ran! It didn’t matter that he couldn’t send us all to
college; he instilled a strong work ethic and entrepreneurial spirit so
that we could succeed in life. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t a perfect
man; he loved his family.
In his last days, my mom, siblings, grandchildren, great-grandchildren
and even his brothers were at his side. Some nights my brother played
piano melodies of many old songs we’d learned from our dad and never
heard anywhere else. Songs like “There Was A Young Farmer”, “The
Umbrella Man”, and “Let’s Sing Again”. Sitting beside my father, holding
his hand, three other brothers gathered while Plink played “Little Man
You’ve Had Busy Day”. For the first time, our dad was the “Little Man”,
and we were the ones crying. The “busy day” was his whole life, and we
all cried as the melody overflowed the room.
Some nights we sang Christmas carols accompanied by guitar and my father
made a valiant effort to sing along as the peace of the Christmas season
descended upon us in a new way, along with a strong sense of family
unity. With a few days, we each said our goodbyes and Dad breathed his
last breath. His final words to us were to “love one another” and we all
knew without saying it, love was the thing that mattered!
