Maria Principessa: Un Sogno

‍I.

In Campo, the ancient olive groves seemed to stumble up the mountains, as if they dreamt of touching the sky. Their canopies were thin. Their crooked trunks bent forward. Their thick, calloused feet sunk through the dirt. They sighed with the eastern breeze that carried whispers of the sea. A little girl wanted to disappear under these olive groves. While her brothers and sisters went to school to learn math, or grammar, or history, she learned how to sew. Her hands and disposition became rough. Life was not fair.

II.

Pepe Carino was a tall and handsome-looking man. His soul was big. His laugh was charming. His words were just. All of the ladies wanted him, but he only wanted her. He saw her one day in the piazza, knowing very well what to do. His cleverness brought her to him, and his passion kept her there. He cut her hair. They kissed once when he was sick. 

III.

After boarding the ship which had waited for her at the port, after eleven days of floating in the ocean, after marveling at white flakes which danced in the winter sky, after getting married, after working in the factories, after buying a house, life became working in the basement on the sewing machine. It was cooking pasta for Joe when he called home from the barbershop. Plucking pears from her backyard in the summertime. Christmas and New Year’s celebrations. Family, food, sweets, cards, smoking, laughter. Taking care of her son Salvatore and her daughter Cora. Taking care of her grandchildren. Watching them grow. 

***

IV.

In the mornings my grandmother wakes up from her dreams against the railing of her queen-sized bed, the other side empty, cold. She crawls, one foot forth, her cane like a scepter, regally guiding her to the bathroom. After showering, she wraps herself in warm clothes and an elegant scarf, spritzing herself with the fine floral scents of her perfume, combing her white hair softly. She peers outside: the sky is blue. She sits in her chair at the table, a cushion on her back. Her morning coffee is too bitter again, and so she sprinkles in spoonfuls of sugar, making a face of disgust when it is still not sweet enough. Someone might call if they remember her, but she cannot remember their name. Her name is Maria Principato, but her words do not flutter out like they used to, before.. Her lips stick together, sealed. Sitting down on her throne that faces the television, she spends hours in a spiral of thought. When she eats dinner, her chewing is loud, loathsome—it breaks the silence of ghosts that haunt her little bungalow. When the dark creeps in through the windows, she is ready for sleep. She puts on a white nightgown and crawls towards the edge of the bed. I can only imagine what this principessa may be dreaming.