Nonna Amelia was tireless, indeed. She never stopped working—although her body was delicate and frail—not for a moment; but I prefer to think of miele (honey), whose Latin root (mel) echoes in the name A-mel-ia.
Nonna Amelia had white, smooth hair, gathered in a bun that fell softly on her neck. She had occhi dolci (gentle eyes), un sorriso dolce (a gentle smile), and her countenance was dolce. She was what in Italian we call a dolce nonnina.
Maybe she was like I remember her, or maybe I metamorphosed her; I remember her in a way that altered her real nature.
Death certainly is metamorphosis, the biggest metamorphosis of human nature, and when you recall the dead, you give a different nature to living beings that once were alive in this saeculum.
They are transubstantiated in memory.
She loved me. She used to caress my blond curls. I remember.
Her soft, smooth, white hair reassured me. It was the only light in that dark, big kitchen where she lived.
I remember a big table in the center and a huge fireplace where a cauldron was permanently boiling.
Nothing else I can recall. The distance forbids it.
No, she was not a witch; she was a fairy.
My blue fairy.
And me, her little Pinocchio.
Death certainly is metamorphosis, the biggest metamorphosis of human nature, and when you recall the dead, you give a different nature to living beings that once were alive in this saeculum.
They are transubstantiated in memory.
She loved me. She used to caress my blond curls. I remember.
Her soft, smooth, white hair reassured me. It was the only light in that dark, big kitchen where she lived.
I remember a big table in the center and a huge fireplace where a cauldron was permanently boiling.
Nothing else I can recall. The distance forbids it.
No, she was not a witch; she was a fairy.
My blue fairy.
And me, her little Pinocchio.
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