It was the first thing I noticed when I walked through the door of my grandparents’ Fort Myers condo, I have never physically been here without my grandpa before. The elevator was out for cleaning so I lugged my suitcase up 3 stories wearing a fleece sweatsuit and a fur jacket over it; obviously dressed from the Chicago tundra. I joked with the men power washing the white concrete floors that I “dressed for the weather.” As I opened the screen door to knock, I felt a rush of emotion when I saw my grandma open the door, smiling. Suddenly the presence of my grandma and the absence of my grandpa hit me all at once. A love that I have witnessed in these walls, now replaying in my mind on a loop.  

For the next couple days I listened to stories of my grandma and grandpa. The ones of him taking my great grandma’s strawberry picking and making them laugh so hard they both peed their pants. The Italian tradition of candy on a plate at the wedding that the grandmother smashes, sending the candy flying for all the kids to grab. The sheets that were embroidered by my great great grandma, only to be used on the nights they brought home a baby and anniversaries. She shared that even for the past 10 years since my grandpa passed, she still puts them on that night. We looked at old pictures of her and my grandpa, and we both, as secretly as possible, wiped our tears.

Simultaneously, I had gotten a text that week that referenced a level of emotion I carried over time. For the first time ever I thought, “duh??? Do you know who I am??” I am the granddaughter of a man that cried at the hallmark channel, who dyed his wife’s hair for her and loved her loudly. The great granddaughter of a woman who fell in love when she was 12, the first time she saw a neighbor at the farm. The great, great granddaughter of immigrants, bringing love and spaghetti sauce recipes to pass down to generations. I finally realized that the emotion I carry is the one thing about me that makes the most sense. I am a product of people who have loved and people who have felt. I almost giggled at the thought of this man thinking my emotions were only for him, and not everyone and everything.

For a long time being emotional (sensitive?) was something that made me afraid. This year specifically, I questioned if my expectations for others were unrealistic. I’m still not sure the answer. But what I do know is this: I come from love and a lot of it. The type of love that sticks in rooms once people are gone. A love that is represented in worn wedding rings, 10 years after someone has passed away. That dances around kitchen tables, and prays before meals. A love that runs towards emotion. I had a realization that weekend that I will do the same. I will no longer apologize for feeling things deeply.

Coming back from the sun into -20 degree weather, I expected to feel sad. The “post vacation blues” as some might say. But I didn’t. I felt so refreshed coming back to my life, remembering exactly where I came from and the life and loves I can vividly see ahead of me, wrapped in the promises of those who came before me.