My babbo likes to remind us of how and why we were born, but no one ever seemed to believe him.  My nonno, nonni, and pretty much everyone around him thought he was just crazy.

Baby, you don’t talk to your food. They told him, while he fiddled with the greens on his plate at 5.

Leo, you’re too old to act like this. Babbo laughed, remembering nonni scolding him in rapid Italian when he was 16.

Babbo sighed, and my seven brothers and sisters leaned in eagerly. I’d already heard this story hundreds of times.

That night, he shoved his world into a bag, not much, he reminded us. A fading photograph, ripped at the edges, of his two sisters and parents, two pairs of dark jeans, and a handful of shirts and socks (and of course, my passport, he added, channeling that inner sixteen-year-old for an eye roll when Pepper asked) followed him to the creaky docks of a tiny town – surely, none of you have heard of it, he chirped – called Camogli.

 The water shifted and crackled against the shore on a balmy, pre-summer sort of night, quiet as the town held its breath for the chattering influx of tourists that would coincide with the rising heat.

A small fishing boat floated at the end of the dock, tethered precariously by a salt-eaten rope. My best friend captained that ship for decades, Babbo claimed, but this best friend had a different name, a different age, and a different fratello with every rendition of the story. Piney stopped him there, wondering out loud why the brother was relevant, which was only followed by a shriek of il fratello è importante (his way of pointing out that every detail, however irrelevant, was important).

The rest of the story blurred, the tired old bit about the la tempesta, the violent storm that chased his stupid, stupid best friend off the shores of life, as Babbo likes to put it, that ends with a Titanic-style rescue (something about a plank and the Coast Guard).

Finally, the journey that no fishing boat should have ever taken, a months-long odyssey, ended in a crash of wood, ocean, and death. Babbo had floated along, luckily close enough to Canada’s coasts to survive but far enough that he’d drifted for days until the coast guard found him clinging to life on the precipice of death - not likely, Toni said, Pepper nodding vigorously in agreement.

He picked up each of us, our backsides scalding from the hot spa treatment that Babbo put us into. Good for the skin, he said, his jowls flapping side to side as he did.

We sidled up against each other, rubbing shoulders and knees, in our crib, specially made for you, Babbo said, talking to everyone, when I really knew he was talking to just me. The light dimmed and the chatter settled, as one by one, each one of us succumbed to sleep. Pepper and Toni, the twins, started snoring first, a surprise really, because they’re always the loudest. Piney whined into Chik’s chest, but she too closed her eyes.

Tomar, Tomar, came the harsh whispers in the dark, the sharp elbows of Olive and Nio digging into both my sides. We cannot sleep! I heard Babbo say 5 dollars to Jonny and point at us. Mush, so fat he took us two beds, grumbled the other side of the room, something about giving us away (us! the extravagant, extraordinary eight).

It’s probably nothing, I said, but Olive and Nio had already dozed off. If you say so, Tomar, Mush groaned, turning over.

A hush fell over the group as each one faded into sleep.

We would again be awakened by a light, painful but welcoming, surrounded by faces new and hungry. There’s no time left for me to tell that story, as they come now for me.