28. Savor the magic
A voi ora il sapervi giovare di questo talismano. It is up to you now to know how to make best use of the talisman.
Possa esso – e il nostro voto – essere propizio al fortunato svolgersi della vostra vita famigliare. May it - and our vow - be conducive to the happy unfolding of your family life, wrote Ada in her dedication of the first edition of Il Talismano.
Paul jumps immediately upon the word: famigliare. Of the family. It’s been in dispute for some time, he offers, whether it should be spelled with the ‘g’ as it has historically, or more commonly now without it: familiare.
I look it up and sure enough, Google returns a string of links of a lively Italian discussion. To g or not to g? No universal decision yet. Famigliare has the same root as famiglia. It would get my vote.
Food. Family. Famiglia. This, I feel Ada believes, is the talisman.
And not to worry. No need for perfection. Basta un po’ di fantasia, she writes. All you need is a bit of imagination.
MY YOUNG NIECE SAT NEXT TO ME on the sofa. She had an angel with her: a soft fabric doll with wings of creamy silk.
Do you like angels? she asked me.
Of course, I said.
Angels aren’t real, she said.
But they are! I said.
Have you ever seen one, Aunt Lisa?
Yes, quite a few. One just days ago....
Her eyes beamed. Tell me!
*
Well, I was at the airport. On my way, to Hap, when he was dying.... It was very late and I was sitting at the end of a row facing a glass wall looking outside into the darkness. There are many empty seats at the gate, but he walked over and took the seat right next to me. His clothes were rumpled. His hair was uncombed. He didn’t look much like an angel, but then, real angels rarely do.
He reached into his brown leather bag, took out a board and a piece of paper, and he began to draw, scratching at the paper with a rough pen.
I was reading a book of poetry… and very sad, thinking about Hap. He turned to me and said If it is not too presumptuous, may I know your first name?
I told him and he scratched some more. I watched this time. Then he lifted the drawing from his board and said, For you. It was a shaggy dog, sitting, her nose out, her long eyes looking up. And next to the dog, in large block letters, was L-I-S-A.
This dog isn’t…sad, he told me as I held the drawing. She’s wistful. And strong.
I asked his name. Kevin O’Malley. Thank you, Mr. O’Malley, I said. How did you know? He nodded his head. [Angels just know!]
I’m on my way into Baltimore to attend a funeral, he said.
So am I, likely, I said.
I am a writer, he said.
I am, too, I said.
I’m studying jazz, he said.
I am, too, I said. We spoke for a couple minutes. He told me a funny story. I even laughed a little.
Good luck to you, Lisa, he said as he stood to go.
It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. O’Malley.
And he got up, walked away. And …disappeared. [Angels do that!]
**
The angel didn’t have wings? my niece said.
No, I said.
And he wasn’t wearing a white robe?
No, I said.
And he just… showed up.
Yes.
He knew he could help!
That’s right, I said.
He drew you a dog! she said.
**
Dear Mr. O’Malley:
One year ago as I sat in LAX, awaiting the red eye to Baltimore and despondent over my father’s imminent death, you walked over, took the seat next to me, and sketched a dog. She struck a proud pose beneath a mop of hair, her eyes gazing upward, steadfast and hopeful, knowing there would always be something more. I was lost in sorrow and reading Rilke when you asked me my name and sketched it, too, on the drawing.
My father died that following afternoon. And as my sister and I gathered in her home in Columbia, I told her young daughter the story of the dog and the artist who drew her. He was an angel, I said. She asked about your wings and if you were dressed in white. Angels take many forms, I said, but what is always true is that they show up suddenly and bring you something very special, something which makes the world okay again. She asked to see the sketch and held it tenderly for some time on her lap.
Shortly afterward, I purchased The Box, truly a remarkable picture book. I have lost many metaphorical teddy bears in my lifetime, whether they were creative ventures, friends, or even the writing muse. And like your little boy, it was sometimes in the exuberance of the adventure that the “teddy” was tossed and captured for a time by a spirit. And yet, with enough belief and some diligence, the reunion was always assured.
Your sketch hangs in my writing studio; your book rests on my bookshelf. Mr. O’Malley, thank you. I wish you many happy days.
Sincerely, Lisa Richter March 2008
When my husband landed in Baltimore with the children the day after my father died, he handed me a card. It had arrived that morning at our home in California. Inside: Happy birthday, Lisa. Love dad. A check for $100, to treat myself. He was buried two days later, on my 46th birthday.
After the funeral my sisters, their families, my children, and I gathered at a small Italian restaurant near what had been our family home. I don’t remember what the others ate, but my dish was certainly gnocchi, for me pure comfort. My husband, eager to get back to California, didn’t stay to share the meal. In the coming years, our marriage would end. I’d grow closer with Lynda—a woman who turned my life upside down and set it in a new, empowered direction—until she too, passed. My two children grew into worldly, kind, successful adults, each in their own time. A treasure pot of love and happiness, they are also joyous cooks: they listen, they understand. And when my life was ready for the next ingredient, Paul was suddenly there. I threw him unconditionally into my pot. It was the right time. The right blend. He became family.
Insaporire. A way of cooking. A way of recalling a memory and building a story. A way through life. Have patience. Rush nothing. The talisman is found in the preparation of the meal, in family. But it is aided by attentiveness. Stay alert. Trust you will know when the time is right for the next spice, the next action. And as with everything, let in a bit of magic.
