I still mother them….

There are so many little things I miss.

Not just the big things.

I miss the nonsense texts.

The long-winded stories that somehow took ten turns before getting to the point. The random updates. The emojis. Lord, the emojis. Vincent’s favorite was always 💩 and somehow he could work it into just about any conversation.

Sometimes I miss those ridiculous texts more than words can explain.

I miss being someone’s “first person to tell.”

This week, Adriano made his very first tray of lasagna.

And if you know our family, you know food is love.

I stood there watching him carefully put the sprig of basil on top like he was some little chef on a cooking show, and my heart just about burst. I grabbed my phone to take a picture because that is what moms and Nonnas do.

We take pictures of ordinary things because somehow we know they are not ordinary at all.

And then it hit me.

I had nobody to send it to.

Because the only two people who would have cared as much as I did about Adriano making his first tray of lasagna were dead.

Vincent would have probably sent back twenty emojis, at least three of them 💩 for no reason at all.

Gabriella would have said, “Look at himmmm,” with about fourteen extra letters and then asked if there was enough for her.

And there I stood, holding my phone and my sadness at the same time.

But I took the picture anyway.

Because grief has taught me something.

Just because the people you want to share the moment with are gone does not mean the moment is any less beautiful.

And then something hit me.

In that moment, I knew Mom-mom Ginocchio was sitting there in spirit. Smiling her proudest smile at me.

Because I have a million memories just like that with her. My bestest memories.

Standing in kitchens.

Watching hands stir, season, taste, and teach. Laughter. Hugs. More laughter. And so much love.

Learning that food was never really about food. It was about love. About time spent together. About traditions that quietly become part of who you are.

And I thought about something.

Mom-mom Ginocchio has been gone for 44 years.

Forty-four years.

And yet, those memories are still as vibrant to me today as they were when I was Adriano’s age.

I can still see her. Feel her. My soul smiles as I type about her! 44 years later her love language lives on.

I still feel those moments.

Still remember the laughter, the smells, the feeling of being loved in ordinary moments that did not feel ordinary at all. And still wrap up my soul.

And suddenly, I understood something.

Maybe that is what we are doing when we love these kids so fiercely.

Maybe we are building memories that outlive us.

I believe someday, fifty years from now, Adriano will remember standing in the kitchen making his first tray of lasagna with me. Gianna will remember the million meals we’ve made together.

Maybe he will remember the basil on top. She’ll remember homemade pasta and chicken parm.

The smell of sauce. The flour everywhere.

The way I hovered too much.

The stories we told.

And one day they will tell their grandchildren, “Your great-grandmom taught me this.”

Long after I am gone.

The truth is, maybe love never leaves.

Maybe it just changes kitchens.

Changes hands.

Changes generations.

And keeps showing up in recipes, stories, and the people who remember us long after we are gone. 💜