The years have been kind, and I am teaching my children to play the violin, insisting on long notes and scales, making them read the dots and count the lines, reminding them that music is something no one can take from them. They are undisciplined, much like I was, but when they play, I hear my life and the life of my family lifting off the strings, just like Uncle Felix said it would.
Angelo teaches history and theology at a small college in upstate New York. He is Professor Bianco now, and the title suits him. He knows more about religion than any man I know, yet he still has a million questions. I just smile and shake my head when he gets tangled in dogma and disillusioned by doctrine.
“There are two things I know for sure, Angelo Bianco,” I tell him, just like I’ve told him a dozen times before, and he always pretends not to know what I’m going to say.
“Tell me,” he says. “What do you know?”
“No one knows the nature of God,” I insist, holding up a finger.
“What else?” he asks, with a twinkle in his eyes. I point my finger toward him and shake it, as if I’m scolding him like a good Italian wife should. But my voice is tender.
“I love you. I have always loved you, and I will always love you.”
“That is enough for me, my wise and devious wife,” he whispers, and he wraps his arms around me so fiercely that I can barely breathe.
It is enough for me too.
Batsheva Rosselli-Bianco