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(Recently my Nona passed away. In life just as in death she was a catalyst and brought our family together.) My nona’s health has been declining for years, and she can no longer look at me and say my name. She is now in a home, marking a shocking and dramatic shift from a woman that cared for others to a woman that is cared for by others. I have clear memories of sitting at the small table in her kitchen with a view of the ravine. A building and road were tucked behind the trees a slimy creek of the ravine, dotted with tiny cars, each an alien microcosm of a life that I know nothing of. In the distance, these cars looked artificial, like paper dolls. My nona’s kitchen was somewhere in Italy, but her house was a five-minute walk from Kennedy subway station (Italy in the middle of Scarborough).

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