Vita

I went to the Necropolis to visit four people who were dear to me.

Three friends taken far too soon. And my Nonno, who lived to a ripe old age and went on his own terms.

I knew roughly where my Nonno was — the Italian section. But roughly wasn’t enough. I had to walk the rows and read each name one by one.

And as I read them, I started to notice something. Palladino. Russo. Biviano. Mercuri. There is a musicality to Italian surnames that feels like the language itself is singing. The names rolled off the tongue beautifully, each one carrying a family, a history, a set of connections I hadn’t expected to find here.

The surnames were familiar. Families I recognized from primary school. From high school. Without knowing it I had grown up alongside the grandchildren of the people I was now paying my respects to. The connections ran deeper than I had realized.

Eventually I found him.

I read his name out loud. Clearly.

There is a photograph of him on the plot. He is standing in his cappello, that cheeky grin.

He is in the Italian section of the Necropolis, surrounded by people whose families I know. He is in good company.

My Dad has already chosen his plot there. He knows where he’s going. There is something peaceful about that — a man who has made his peace with the order of things.

I didn’t find two of my younger friends on this visit. Both from the same family. Both taken too soon. That is for next time.

One day I will bring my own children here. And one day they will bring theirs. The names in the rows will keep growing, and somewhere in the future a grandchild will walk these paths and find a name they recognize.

My name.

Paul Mercuri
Wake Up Here Founder

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