Going through some old photos one stood out from the rest. It was a photo of mama and me having a glass of red wine. It brought back memories for me of her telling the story (many times) of her father making homemade wine down in their cellar. She would say she never loved the taste of wine back then but when we drank it, it brought back her memories of her father who she always missed.
It became another ritual for us to drink a little red wine with her favorite meal, spaghetti and meatballs! She'd go into detail of how my grandfather would go up and down the cellar stairs in Harlem carrying the bottles of his labor of love. She was very close to him because she was the baby of the family of thirteen and she even named me after him.
Even though Mama is gone, Douglass and I often remember Mama’s story of my grandfather making wine as we enjoy our spaghetti and meatball dinner with some red wine. We always toast Mama saying how we miss her and her stories. And I wish I could’ve met my grandfather, the neighborhood winemaker.
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Read more about our journey with Mama in our book "Dementia-Mama-Drama" on Amazon Books
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