Page 157 of Rosetti Family New York
“Too much?”
“Never.”
“You sure? It’s a lot.”
“It’s good,” I say. “They’re good.”
“They’re loud.”
He’s right. His family is noisy and wild, the opposite of Domenico's steady calm.
“Then how’d you end up with a family like that?” I tease, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“Luck,” he says. He kisses me, deep and certain, like he has all the time in the world. “And, in your case, good taste.”
He looks at me, waiting. “What?” I ask.
“You’re happy.” It’s not a question.
“Yes.”
A crash and a shout from the next room. Carmela and Eleanor, each with a pile of new gifts. Leo is cursing, as loud as ever. Dom doesn’t move. I can tell he doesn’t want to let go.
Nanna Toni yells for us to get back in there, and Dom shakes his head in amused surrender. “See? Too loud.”
“You love it.”
“I love you.” He pulls me close. He never raises his voice, even with the rest of them shouting like it’s their job.
“Get back in here!” Nanna Toni’s orders are final. “They’re singing and it’s awful!”
It’s not awful. It’s chaos and comfort and everything I need. We walk back into the living room, and Carmela throws her arms around me. She’s holding a neatly wrapped box. It’s deep, bright red, and looks as warm as everything else here.
“For you,” she says. “Merry Christmas.”
“Should I be afraid?” I ask.
“Never,” she says. Her eyes are as bright as the paper. “You’ll love it.”
She watches, eager and expectant, as I open it. It’s a bottle and two crystal glasses. I cock my head in question.
"Aged grappa, hon,” she explains. “You’re family, so you gotta drink like it. Drink it when you stop doubting you belong here. Or when you want to set something on fire.”
I love it. She doesn’t know it, but it’s as important as my mother’s knife, as the house Dom and I will make our own. I hold it tight, and she hugs me again, tighter than before.
The rest of the family gathers around us, waiting for what happens next. The piano. A bunch of carols, and then one that echoes in the back of my memory.
“Lindi Mesia, u gëzua gjithësia,” the voices sing in unison, and my heart stutters.
The language I’ve tried to forget, sung back to me in a way I never imagined. Carmela doesn’t stop smiling. She’s taught it to them, just for me.
The way they sing, the words don’t sound harsh. They don’t sound like threats or orders. They’re gentle, round, and full. They remind me of Mami. For once, the Albanian language is beautiful, and I decide to learn it all over again.
I look at Dom, at his family, at my new world. I’m not sure I know how to belong like this, but they don’t seem to care.
35
Domenico
