Giacomo Puccini / Un bel dì (One Fine Day)

Paying tribute to my grandmother with her favorite opera aria, which searches for blossoms of hope in a field of despair.

Ryūryūkyo Shinsai (Japanese, active ca. 1799–1823). Cherry Blossoms in the Rain, Edo period, 19th century. Woodblock print (surimono); ink and color on paper. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

As I've journeyed through my fifth decade on this planet, I've often taken comfort in knowing my two grandmothers were still alive. Both women were formative figures and my favorite relatives to spend time with as a child: My Nana Ana, for her quiet tenderness, and my Grandma Angie, for her animated humor. So it was with a heavy heart that I received word on April 7 that my Grandma Angie had died earlier that morning, at the age of 92. 

I hadn't seen her in several years, due to a mix of geographic distance, a global pandemic, changes in family dynamics, and the dementia that required her to move into a full-time care facility. The cherished memories we shared, however, have always remained close to my heart, and getting to see countless photos of her that looped on a large television screen at her wake unearthed many of those scenes in my mind's eye, accompanied by a Proustian trove of familiar scents and sounds.

Angie loved music, especially the crooners. There was hardly a Christmas Day when my ears weren't met with the gravelly swagger of Frank Sinatra or Barbra Streisand's buttery voice as I walked through her front door. She also loved musical theater, an interest she was only too happy to share when, in 1993, she escorted me on my first trip to New York City, to see The Phantom of the Opera.

And although she didn't listen to classical music often, she did love how much I love it. When PBS aired an American Masters episode on the legendary pianist Arthur Rubinstein one weekend when I was staying at her house, she gladly relinquished the television to a 10-year-old me. (A luxury I never would have experienced at home.) Lying on the floor of her living room, bristles of shag carpeting nibbling on my elbows, I was enraptured by Rubinstein effortlessly performing Chopin as she supplied me with slice after slice of toast with strawberry jam and butter. (More butter than anyone should be allowed to schmear on a single square of bread, it should be noted. Another perk of sleepovers at grandma's house.)

There was one corner of the classical world Angie did enjoy, however: opera. Her father, who had immigrated to Connecticut from Naples in the 1920s, was a devout fan of the art form — especially late 19th-century Italian opera — traveling often to see performances at the Metropolitan Opera and New York City Opera. He died when I was 14, before I had acquired enough knowledge about opera to fully appreciate his stories, but I still remember his soft chuckle and the big grin that skittered across his olive-skinned face as he professed his love for sopranos Joan Sutherland and Renata Tebaldi.

Angie never had the desire to sit through an entire opera, but there were a handful of arias she loved to listen to — none more than "Un bel dì" (One Fine Day) from Giacomo Puccini's Madama Butterfly. This song, with its gentle strains of hope and longing, quickly became my first operatic love.

The story of Madama Butterfly revolves around the young Cio-Cio-San, whose family has arranged for her to marry the swarthy Pinkerton, an American naval officer stationed in Nagasaki. She soon adopts the American customs and Christian religion of her new husband, causing an irreconcilable rift with her family. And shortly after Pinkerton embarks on a voyage back to the United States, with promises to return for her, she bears him a child. Three years later, Pinkerton does return — but not to reunite with Cio-Cio-San. Accompanied by his new American wife, Pinkerton has made the Pacific journey only to retrieve his son. Devastated and dishonored by Pinkerton's deception and the thought of losing her young child, Cio-Cio-San kills herself, performing harakiri to restore honor to her family.

Marcel Jambon (Spanish, 1848–1908) and Alexandre Bailly (French, 1866–1947). Collina presso Nagasaki, set design for Madama Butterfly, Act 1, 1906. Watercolor over light cardboard. Image: Archivio Storico Ricordi via Wikimedia Commons

At the center of this tragic tale, "Un bel dì" offers a moment of much-needed hope and resilience. Holding vigil as she awaits Pinkerton's return, Cio-Cio-San sings to her maid, Suzuki, of that "one fine day" when Pinkerton's ship appears on the horizon and he returns to his precious "Butterfly." Beginning as if in mid-sigh, ethereal and silvery, Cio-Cio-San floats above the orchestra before her melancholic melody begins its measured descent into the warm, burnished tones of her lower register, where a quiet confidence emerges. Most of the aria is hushed, the soprano accompanied by only a few instruments at a time to mirror the intimacy of her thoughts. 

But as she reaches the moment in her fantasy where she's about to embrace Pinkerton, the music swells to a volcanic climax. "This will all come to pass," she proclaims to Suzuki, "Banish your idle fears, for he will return. I know it!" Exhausted by the emotions swimming within her, her final words are overtaken by the full orchestra, with horns and strings bringing her melody to its calm conclusion.

Although Madama Butterfly ends in profound tragedy, there's much we can learn from the strength and determination Cio-Cio-San embodies in this aria: the importance of manifesting light in moments of darkness, finding delicate blossoms of hope in a field of despair, all the while bearing our honor like a bronze shield.

Cio-Cio-San's innocent dream is one I like to think we all share — living a life of quiet dignity, surrounded by those we love and who, we hope, return that love in equal measure. I'm thankful my Grandma Angie was able to achieve such a life in her 92 years, her legacy of love and humor reborn each day by the family and friends she inspired. It's a life I hope every one of you is able to carve out and enjoy one fine day — even if, at this moment, it only seems like a ship slowly crossing the distant horizon.

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Take a listen …

Maria Callas, soprano, with the Orchestra del Teatro alla Scala di Milano, conducted by Herbert von Karajan. (Follow along with the text's English translation here.)

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