Obituary for Maria Di Filippo
DI FILIPPO, Maria
January 17, 1936 – August 6, 2022
It is with great sadness that we announce the passing of Maria Di Filippo (née Carpico) on August 6th, 2022, at the age of 86. She is reunited with her husband, Antonio, and parents, Angela and Emilio, and sister, Anna (Antonio). She leaves behind her beloved daughter, Mirella (Albert), sister, Antonia (Costantino) and two granddaughters, Justine (Alexander) and Diana. She will be dearly missed by everyone, including her extended family in Italy, France and Canada, and her friends and neighbours in her community here in Toronto.
Maria was a strong woman. A widow, working mother, and immigrant, she exemplified the strength and courage that it takes to be a woman in this world. In her honour, the family requests that in lieu of flowers, donations be made to the Canadian Women’s Foundation, a public foundation that works to empower women, girls and gender-diverse people, helping them out of poverty and violence into leadership and confidence, in an effort to continue affecting systemic change. Her life was a representation of such change.
Visitation will be held at Bernardo Funeral Home (2960 Dufferin Street south of Lawrence Avenue West) on Thursday, August 11, 2022 from 2 – 4 & 6 – 9 p.m. A funeral mass will be celebrated at St. Thomas Aquinas Church (640 Glenholme Avenue, east of Dufferin) on Friday, August 12 at 11:30 a.m. Entombment to follow at Prospect Cemetery (1450 St. Clair Avenue W., east of Caledonia Road).
Maria’s funeral mass will be livestreamed via Zoom for those who are unable to attend in person. Live streaming will begin on Friday, August 12, 2022 at 11:30 a.m. Please click on the Zoom link below to join virtually.
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On August 6th, 2022, shortly after midnight, our loving grandmother breathed her last breath on this earth. This earth that she worked every year to create the most magnificent and abundant garden, feeding her family and friends with what can only be described as pure love. She was born on January 17—a Capricorn in every sense—she was steadfast, stoic, stubborn and never had a bad intention, ever. She never wanted to burden anyone with her needs. Her life was filled with sacrifice and giving, and we were so lucky to be the chosen ones to receive these gifts, day in and day out.
“Che stai a fa?” she’d call me and ask. Those phone calls that admittedly, sometimes I cut short or forgot to make. They meant the world to this simple woman. Phone calls that will be no longer. A big caffettiera and some cookies in the afternoon sitting around her kitchen table, no longer. Ciambelle, hot and fresh out of the oven that she laboured over all morning, no longer. Her eye rolls and annoyed face when we’d start our shenanigans, and the tears in our eyes from laughter when she’d finally break character. “Ma, vatenne, va,” she’d say laughing, trying to restore order. Order and cleanliness gave her life purpose. I never knew someone who cleaned as much as her. She swept her sidewalk and driveway, daily.
When I look back at all these moments, thanks to my iPhone and iCloud, I’ve been able to accumulate so many memories. I’m reminded of the fact that we did so much together. My goodness, we did. We weren’t those families that only get together on Easter and maybe call you for Christmas. We were together, together. And as I face the unwanted task of looking back, I am comforted by the realisation that I had my nonna for 36 years of my life and we had a real, real-life relationship. We were able to communicate in the same language, ciociaro, and we always lived so close to one another. We enjoyed each other’s company and we made time. We made time. And I am so happy I don’t have to regret anything at all. Of course, her passing feels like someone ripped my heart out of my chest with no warning, and I don’t want it. Not now. I am not ready. We were supposed to have another 10 years together. She was supposed to be here. To remind me of how much flour to put in my pizza dough and to remind me that I am loved.
My nonna’s love is something I’ll never experience again from anyone, ever. As I roam her garden, harvesting tomatoes (she planted over 60 tomato plants this summer, by herself, with no fancy gardening tools), cucumbers, beans, peppers, zucchini, herbs, potatoes, garlic, lettuce—as I pick the fruits of her labour, I cannot believe she would make it so that she’d be feeding us from beyond. She’s not even here anymore and she’s still putting food in my mouth. How? I wonder, how incredible are the works of God to inflict such pain and such joy at the same time?
Answers I will never have until we are reunited again. It makes me less afraid to die knowing that she will be there to greet me.
I don’t think I can ever stop writing about her, it would be impossible to say everything that I need to say. Like her presence, I would want it to never end. But I will only pause now, until I write again, in her memory, all the beautiful things that she was, all the important lessons she taught me, and all the things I am without her.