In Loving Memory of Vincent Salerno
The cleaners I go to always do a good job. Although, you wouldn’t think so given how the place looks. There’s a pleasant scent of detergent in the air, but the floors are grimy, the paint’s peeling, and there’s just random stuff scattered about. Things like disassembled washing machines, fake plants that have somehow found a way to wilt, and those old vending machines. Ones that probably haven’t been stocked in years and feature generic, sun-faded graphics of a beach and a guy skiing down a mountain in the early 90s. The place is fascinating, though, and normally I wouldn’t have cared to take all that in while waiting for the employee to finish their smoke break, but I was ready to get out of there on that particular day. I hated how casually grim a task such as dropping off dry cleaning for an anticipatory, theoretical funeral felt. Even if it was prudent to be prepared.
I went to see my grandfather after that, noting how even while battling illness, he still lit up when my nephew—one his great-grandkids—toddled over to him. Leaving that day, I wondered if it was the last time I’d see Papa.
It was.
When I got the call from my Mom, I felt so calm that I wondered if something was wrong with me. I’d dealt with grief and loss before, but this was different.
Was it relief that he wasn’t in pain anymore, no longer had to suffer?
Would I eventually feel guilt?
Had I truly asked all the questions, had the conversations, and made the most of the time that had been left?
Was I just suppressing my feelings and covering for something—using the arrangements and obligations that lay ahead as distractions from the inevitable?
I kept bracing for when it would hit—that final blow, the true realization of loss, a culmination of grief when you have to just stop what you’re doing and break down wherever you’re standing. It came close at times. Like when I went back to work and found my computer still had the obituary pulled up, or, when we picked out what would be his final suit (taking it out of a laundry bag from the same dry cleaning chain I use). But, the days just kept going.
So, I debated if my reaction, my emotional state was normal. Proper. Appropriate. Debated if I should write something, confront it all head on, because maybe I was being avoidant. But what comfort or clarity could words offer at this stage? And what could I even begin articulate?
The challenges of end of life care have been well documented from so many, and who in this life doesn’t have some anecdote on the experience of aging?
Maybe there was something topical? How a man who survived Mussolini’s Italy, emigrated to the United States, and eventually served in the US Army passed away just days before his homeland took a far-right turn towards fascist leaning politicians once more?
Maybe it should be about about family coming together, reuniting in new stages of life and carrying on with laughter, card games, and comfort despite the somber occasion.
Or what about the irony of him being laid to rest just one day before his 89th birthday?
Even if I found something to put down, what was my motivation for doing so? Social media sympathy was (and still is) the last thing I wanted, but was I being selfish in posting something? Was I making it about me?
Then, amid the sounds that accompany tears and the babbling of a toddler who adorably and innocently had no idea what was going on—I looked forward at my Dad. He was shaking as the priest eulogized his own father, before the clergyman flatly and stoically said: “Vince had a good life.”
After the final service at the cemetery, I stood by the casket in an empty room and those words came back. Papa did have a good life. And my life is good because of him.
I miss him.
I’ll always be grateful for the time I had.
And I’ll always remember how he was one of the people who introduced me to photography, the man who taught me how to properly write a lower case “t” (so that my grade school handwriting would stop looking like plus signs), the grandparent who gave me a train set, and the man who ensured I had a good education.
But, maybe it’s really just as simple as that one sentence. “Good” isn’t the absence of great. Nor is it a plateau. It’s just straightforward and direct. Much like how my grandfather was.
Papa had a good life.
And my life is good because of him.
In loving memory of Vincent Salerno, there are two specific stories I want to re-share here. I’m able to do what I do in life thanks to him and so many others. Some still here, some now gone, but all of whom have provided examples of how to try and make life good.
IPhone shot of Papa from my cousin’s wedding reception in 2014 when I’d been drinking quite heavily and he wanted me to photograph him in a suit specifically for his “funeral one day.” We did not end up using this photo, but it made for a good story.
Nana & Papa, 2011.
Papa & Nana in 2020.
Papa & Nana on vacation.
Nana & Papa’s wedding day as seen in a 3D Viewfinder.
Papa’s US Army portrait.
From Papa’s US Army jacket, a piece of clothing I regrettably played paintball in as a teenager.
Papa, me, and Dad at Riverfront Stadium in 1991.
This “multi-tool” that Papa gave me after he received it as a free “gift” from an AARP magazine subscription. It has come in handy more times than I care to admit.
One of Papa’s many 35mm film cameras that I have and still use.
