In her later years, my Italian grandmother couldn’t remember what day it was or her own name. Yet before leaving the house, she never forgot to grab her black leather pocketbook with the single-snap closure that safely housed her dentures, balled up in a slightly-used Kleenex that ultimately ended up being thrown in the trash. By her. One minute Nonna would be sitting in her tattered living room chair, and the next she’d be out the front door, down the crumbled cement steps and halfway up the block, on a mission to go home. We soon figured out that “home” meant back to Italy, where she was born on this…