I remember it as clearly as a new pair of glasses: he was standing in the hallway of the house I had always known him to live in, the house he built when he was a young man, looking away from me. Despite my loud steps, I have a tendency of sneaking up on people. A frailty other members of the family never truly saw. Even before the end finally came, I noticed a degree of weakness to his body. While I was getting lost in Whitechapel, my Poppi was admitted into the hospital for the first of many times. Curiously, my attempt began with me witnessing a Gull fly in the air. I ended up giving up after a couple of hours. On my birthday in particular, I attempted to follow the Jack the Ripper murders without a working map or a clear idea where the bodies were actually located. I spent most of my time wandering the streets trying to find new, interesting things. I was in London at the time, mooching off of my brother who was getting lessons from famed cinematographer Janus Kamiński about the craft of filmmaking. He started to have lung problems around the week of my 21 st birthday. I would sometimes watch him work.) Eventually, he had to be moved into our house for the simple fact that the house he lived in with Nonna was in the middle of the woods. A swing set, a chair, or something I wasn’t familiar with.
(I will always remember him working on something or other in that basement workshop. He couldn’t work in his workshop in the basement anymore-couldn’t even go down there due to the machine. There were periods where he would be out of the hospital and had to walk around with an oxygen machine. Lung problems from a youth building houses. He had been going in and out of the hospital for the entire year before he passed. I read Alan Moore’s Jerusalem the month before my Poppi died.
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