My grandmother died last October. She knew she was increasingly sick and there was a point when she knew she wouldn't have gotten any better, but my family made the hard choice not to ever mention the word "cancer". She had fought two cancers years before, and she would have accepted to die of anything, except that. Left to struggle with the implications of such a choice, my family members and I faced the results. My grandmother spent most of her last months in a cocoon, surrounded by family, living of muffled pain and small moments of love. I had been living away from home for a long time, and by coming back to spend time together I rediscovered in her a sweeter grace, our childhood games, and the strength of her relationship with my mother. "Nonna Dida" is the way I called her all my life, since when I was a child and I couldn't properly pronounce her name, "Marisa". In the moments we shared I had the chance to witness her keep all her dignity while letting go of the pride, confronting a fast-changing body without any shyness, and without ever losing her femininity. I was given a deep lesson of endurance and love, while my family was losing a generation.
