Every Sunday Dad would pile everyone into the car and drive us to Nonna's house on Euclid Avenue. He'd insist we leave by 11 sharp, then spend twenty minutes talking to Mr. Greco across the street before we actually pulled out.
Nonna's kitchen was the size of a closet and somehow fed fourteen people. Dad's job was the espresso after lunch — nobody else was allowed to touch the machine. He'd stand at the stove, sleeves rolled up, telling the same three stories about the village, and we'd laugh like we'd never heard them.
I didn't know it then, but those Sundays were the whole point.
