I would give the world for 10 minutes with her.
Nanny Janice and I had known each other for 11 months before her passing in February 2003. Though we have plenty of photos, the pain felt by myself and my family from her loss will remain unchanged. Growing older, I learned more and more about the woman we had all lost: who she was, what she loved, and why it hurt so much to lose her. All I could ever ask for since then is 10 more minutes.
In those 10 minutes, I’d tell her absolutely everything.
I’d tell her everything about myself. An infant at 11 months doesn’t have much to say, and especially not too many things to talk about. I’d tell her that I am preparing to leave for college next year, that I’ll be a senior in high school next month. I’d tell her that I want to someday work in the field of the English language, whether it be teaching or writing or both. I’d tell her that I love to perform and to do theater productions at my school, and that our upcoming musical is Newsies. I’d tell her that I love to sing just as she had, though I don’t think I have as beautiful a voice as my mother says she did. I’d tell her that I love Broadway and spending time in New York City, exploring it more and more each time I’m there. I’d tell her that I love to read and write, and I’d mention that I’ve noticed how similar our handwriting is. I’d tell her about my trip to Italy, a place she was never able to go, and that I lit a candle in her memory at many of the churches we visited. I’d tell her about family vacations we’ve been on, thanks to the hard work of my parents, and tell her how much she would have loved to see some of these places with us. I’d tell her about all of my friends, what each of their names are and how we met. I’d tell her some stories about times I’ve had with them and memories I’ve made. I’d tell her that I will always be her Johnny Angel.
I’d tell her that since she’s been gone, she’s become the grandmother to 6 grandsons: John, Daniel, Christian, Michael, Antonio, and Max. I’d tell her that Daniel loves baseball just as she did. I’d tell her stories of his games and plays that he’s made, all while pretending to know what I’m talking about. I’d tell her that he is almost taller than me and that he loves biology and science. I’d tell her that he is the spitting image of a Vesloski boy, and that he got all of her family’s features. I’d tell her that Christian is a computer whiz, and that he is great with electronics. I’d tell her about his recent camp experience at SUNY New Paltz, where he learned all sorts of new techniques in the technological world. I’d tell her that he’s very smart and creative, and that he is constantly building with his Legos. I’d tell her that he’s come a long way, struggling with mental illness and overcoming it. I’d tell her that Michael is starting kindergarten next month, and that he is just as stubborn as his mother, Laura. I’d tell her that he is extremely intelligent, with a vocabulary seemingly fit for a 4th grader. I’d tell her that Antonio is a compassionate little boy who loves to care for those around him, particularly children younger than him, while still being a walking wrecking ball. I’d tell her that he knows who she is and he knows her name, and can point her out in pictures. I’d tell her that Max is learning how to speak and can walk all by himself now. I’d tell her that he loves his “Papa,” Joey, and has the same goofy personality as him. I’d tell her that we 6 are a tight-knit group full of love, and that we share an unbreakable bond between us.
I’d tell her I love her, something I couldn’t do at 11 months. I’d tell her I miss her, something I could do for 11 centuries. I’d tell her that I wish she could stay for longer than 10 minutes.