Uncle Tony to me, was the man who brought white boxes of pastries, tied up with red and white string to Easter dinner every year.
I was one of the first born cousins, alongside Ronnie and Toni. We heard the awkward silences during mealtime. How grandma Evelyn (“Dee-Dee”) would try to steer your conversations away from certain subjects. We understood something was broken in your universe long before we arrived into the awkward circle.
I remember thinking later, when I became a father – how hard you tried to impress him. When you brought your white boxes with red and white string – you made a point of talking about every pastry inside. Why it was special. How long you’d stood in line to acquire it. How long this one took to make, and how only so many of them were made early each morning. Whatever you said to him though, no matter how wonderful the delight, was met with deflection and rejection. He was a rock that people broke themselves on.
I love how you loved food, and your family. I love seeing images of your tomato gardens (I have my own). I love seeing pots filled with grandma’s stuffed cabbages (I still make them). You understood that gardens and food heal the soul. Grandma taught us that in the heart of trauma, she could tell us we were loved in her coded-cooking. I think you were fluent in her encryption languages.
Most of all, I love how you decided to be better than was offered to you as a father. To delight in them and the things they did. To climb beyond what we were shown was normal, and turn the tide for all of us. To change and want more. To be better. To want better for them.
You were always kind to me.
You called me Woody and Mikey, and there’s only one person on earth that calls me that left, now.
Thank you for your white boxes with red and white string. I saw your heart that day. We all did. Thank you for trying.
I will celebrate you in my garden, and in my kitchen. I will sing and tell my own sons and daughter they are loved, and fall over myself with delight when they bring desserts to my home someday in your honor. I will always be proud of them and remember your white boxes and do better, and be better.
Your nephew, always.
Michael “Woody” Patrick Lydick