This story is a part of Love For Our Elders’ celebration of National Share-A-Story Month. We encourage you to share your story with us this month by clicking here.

I never met my grandmother. I wore her gold cross necklace around my neck this afternoon as I took a walk beneath the hot Florida sun. I wear her plain gold band and sometimes hold her cursive letter 'D' pin in the palm of my hand. I wonder if it is possible to miss someone who died 34 years ago, years before I was born.

Domenica was born in Milici, a tiny village in the Province of Messina of Sicily. She moved to the United States as an adult with my grandfather, who was born in neighboring village Castroreale in Messina. My grandfather was a chef in various states in the United States for many years before he brought my grandmother to the country to give his family more opportunity. He became deaf as he grew older but could communicate by writing. My grandparents moved to South Florida and grew and sold hundreds of fruits and crops on their rural property. 

My dad can recognize the species of almost every fruit tree in Florida, it seems. He recently took me to the Fruit and Spice Park near the old property for the first time, and I touched and observed the fruit trees that my grandparents walked through 50 years ago. Back then, they took the seeds that had fallen on the dirt beneath the trees to grow fruit of their own. He tells me that the Tommy Atkins mangoes are the ones in grocery stores with rich orange and green skin and a stringy interior. Apparently, Indian mangoes are less bright and attractive on the outside but taste far better. Tommy Atkins mangoes sold because of their appearance and my grandparents relied heavily on the variety for profit.

It was hard work to keep up with the property. My grandmother was sick with asthma and later cancer, and my grandfather had died of cancer in the late 70s. With two sons and guard dogs on the property, she had help selling fruit from the front porch and grafting branches of trees to produce more fruit. I learn about her life through the hundreds of photos we keep in a brown trunk with birth certificates and old relics. My dad tells me about the dirt floors, green mountains and lush orange trees as we look at photos from their visit to Sicily in the 80s. My grandmother loved the tropical landscape of South Florida because it reminded her of the Messina countryside where dogs ran free and temperatures were never too chilly. She learned Spanish in Florida by speaking with customers and assimilated by speaking English, but she never lost her Italian.

In yellowed photos, I see enormous mango and lychee nut trees as my grandmother, dad and uncle pose with serious expressions in the foreground. I recognize the gold ‘D’ pin that is fastened to the front of her patterned pink dress. Some photos are warped and damaged from Hurricane Andrew, but I am stunned by the small image of my great-grandmother Concetta, posing with her daughter Domenica with a hardened expression and white cloth around her head. Born in the 1890s, my dad tells me that she was almost 100-years-old at the time and still worked in the fields with her hands. I wonder how often my grandmother Domenica wore her gold pin as she worked tirelessly in the hot Florida sun to maintain the fruit trees and herbs. I wonder if she would be pleased to know that my dad no longer spends his all mornings and afternoons chopping branches and picking fruit. She might be disappointed to know that I have never tried an Indian mango and that I cannot stand the taste of lychee nuts.