We climbed a hill, shivering, still half asleep. She had brought a small breakfast, and we ate in the cold as the sky turned pale pink, the sun slowly stretching across the horizon. Afterward, we rolled down the snow-covered slope until we were dizzy and laughing so hard it hurt.
That memory feels like pure magic.
Every memory with her feels like that. She has this way of making the most ordinary things feel so amazing.
But the real power is that she made some horrible memories feel bearable.
I love her for that.
“Sorry, Nonna,” I say, my voice catching. “I’ve been so busy with volleyball and life in general. Finding time is hard.” I pause, swallowing the guilt.
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get to the good stuff. How’s volleyball?” Her voice lifts instantly, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
She loves it when I am happy. Loves it more than she will ever admit. But I know the truth: my happiness always has a price.
I play not just for me, but for her; for the memory of Nonno, who had been a champion before tragedy stole him away.
Nonna always told me I reminded her of him.
So, somewhere in my early teenage years, the love I had for volleyball, the small passion that I enjoyed doing, grew heavy with obligation — a way to make her smile.
I felt obligated to give back for all the joy she had poured into my childhood, and the only way to repay joy is to give it back.
So I did, every day, I would go to train and practice, and when she saw me getting closer and closer to my grandfather’s lever, she would smile more and more often.
“It’s going well,” I say, trying to make the excitement in my voice sound real. “I’m in the middle of a tournament, in the U.S.A!”
“Isn’t that good news!” She cheers. “You should come celebrate!”
“You know I can’t, Nonna. I love you, but I’m so busy I can barely sleep.”
It’s true, but that’s not the reason I gave her that excuse.
“Well, the moment you find even three days, you come see your Nonna. She’s getting tired of life, you know.”
A death joke.
Just like old times.
“Nonna, don’t even joke like that. You know I hate it.”
“Please.” Her voice gets softer. “I might joke, but I do miss you, Lulu. You’re my precious, firstborn, grandson.”
“Yeah. I love you too.” I whisper
“Call me when you have time. I want updates.”
“I will,” I say, forcing a laugh. And then I hang up.
I stare at the ceiling, but the white paint slowly blurs into nothing as my thoughts swallow me.
I wish people could love me for more than volleyball. For more than just how many points I score.
But people just can’t — or maybe they could, if I had any other qualities worth noticing.
More than just numbers and tricks.
I wish that I could haveoneconversation that doesn’t involve volleyball.
