Commenting on her skin,
Telling her how young and healthy it was,
Like it glowed from within.
We were never very good at talking,
Because of the language,
My Italian was never very good,
And she never tried too hard at English,
Still, I always liked to visit nonna,
Whenever I was home,
We'd sit and play Scopa and Briscola,
Having homemade cookies and espresso.
So now she's gone,
No surprise, still a shock,
I'll miss that woman named Italia,
And a world where she would answer my knock.
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