Kintsugi is a style of Japanese pottery that repairs broken bowls and the like not by hiding where it’s been broken but highlighting where it’s been broken. With gold. This week, Julie chose to explore the concept of Kinstugi as it relates to grief, while Brad connected Kinstugi to his hearing loss.
My friend, co-conspirator, fellow “outlaw”, and ally – my brother-in-law, Frank, whom I affectionately often referred to as Frankie – passed away unexpectedly. As I hammered out those words, tears gathered at the corners of my eyes, and I let them come forth and splash down on the keyboard. I have been fighting back these past 2 weeks at letting myself even chip at my tightly welded seams, but the time has come to let go and let it fall away. I am ready to shatter and repair myself with my own version of Kintsugi – my memories of Frankie.
I fill in the crevice above my left eye with the recollection of when we went to the Billy Joel concert together at Fenway Park some years ago, and how we reveled in the joy of watching a family some rows in front of us belt out every song and dance fervently to every note that wafted across the field to our seats. Their energy was feverish and catching – and as they completely lost their minds when the opening notes of “Piano Man” were released into the air, and as they grabbed one another and hugged and yelled about how they couldn’t believe he was playing this in concert – we felt their enthusiasm, found their astonishment a bit amusing yet sweet, and wondered aloud, “Did they really think he wasn’t going to sing this one!?” And we laughed.
The crevasse that runs down my right cheek is filled up with the time I told him to not buy a ton of coffee pods for his daughter’s graduation party that was being held at my house because, and I quote, “Maybe 3 people in the crowd will be having coffee on a hot day in June – go to Stop and Shop and buy one box of coffee pods. That’s it.” He proudly entered my kitchen with 2 giant boxes from Costco filled to the brim with both regular and decaf pods. I shot him my famous “look”, and he grinned sheepishly. I crept up behind him as the party wound down to inform him that exactly 3 people had coffee that afternoon – with him being 1 of them. And we laughed.
The split in my lower lip is filled by memories of the many, many drinks he mixed up for me over the years – with the most memorable being the “pink drink” that I am not sure even had a name. The “pink drink” and I became very well acquainted on New Year’s Eve 2004 (and I haven’t touched it since). The next morning at breakfast I was barely able to hold my head up and the smell of sizzling bacon was enough to trigger a close call with the resurgence of the “pink drink” from within my battered system. And we laughed.
The split trail that winds its way down my left shoulder is filled by the memory of getting the call that his first child, Samantha, was born and we were expected at the hospital to meet her for the first time. We grabbed balloons, a Spam and cheese sandwich on lightly toasted wheat bread for the new Mom, and Newcastle Brown Ale for Frankie. In true Italian fashion, I also managed to balance a pizza on one hand while the other clutched balloons and a present for my new niece. I buzzed at top speed through the halls of the hospital to the room – only to find it sterile and empty as they were still in the recovery room. I yelled “NOPE! TURN AROUND!” and skidded out of the room to bolt down the hallway in the opposite direction to find my new niece and to toast the new Papa with his beloved ale. And we laughed.
The cracks that sprinkle across my right wrist are filled by the memory of trudging through snow to meet his second child, my nephew Daniel. Once again, we flew through the halls laden down with snacks, the Spam sandwich, Newcastle Brown Ale for Frankie, and presents for my precious nephew. This time, we found the right room on the first try. And we laughed.
The scar that juts sharply across my left knee is filled by the words whispered to me quietly in the kitchen by his wife, Judy, as she held their third child, James – she said, “Will you be James’s Godmother?” as Frankie stood proudly by, smiling softly and awaiting my response. I burst into tears, as did Judy, and of course – when I looked up, there was Frankie chuckling away at my display of emotion. And we laughed.
The jagged cracks on my right thigh are filled thickly with the memory of when we played in a family softball game, and I (unwisely) decided to steal second base whilst wearing flip flops. I heard something pop followed by a sharp, searing pain. I was convinced that I was hit in the calf by a ball. (In reality, I tore my calf muscle) I hobbled off to the bench where I sat sulking at being sidelined. I was in agony with each step I took by the time evening fell. To keep my mind off of the pain, Frankie grabbed me in his arms and twirled me across the kitchen floor at our shared in-laws’s home. And we laughed.
There is a river of cracks flowing around my left ankle, filled in with the many text messages we would exchange back and forth venting about our in-laws, sports, politics, work, or any other impassioned rants. We had a shorthand that was all our own, nearly indecipherable to the casual reader, and no matter how elevated our emotions were as we worked out solutions and dispensed advice, it always ended with a silly meme or joke or something equally ridiculous that only we would find funny. And we laughed.
The crack that runs through the center of my heart will be the hardest to fill, and try as I might there is not a singular memory that can patch it over. I draw on a favorite quote by Leonard Cohen (adapted from the poet, Rumi), “There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”
I said my final goodbye to you, Frankie, as I gently laid my hand on your casket. I promised to love and guide your children, to the best of my ability, until we meet again.
And I cried.
Dedicated to the memory of Frank J. Nappi. Rest easy, Frankie, until we meet again.
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