“Here”, is Mr Walter’s office. Blank walls, denuded desk, overly tiny chair struggling with Mr Walter’s heft. He is a plump man. As my mother would say later: “he must be eight months pregnant with a stomach like that. The baby would come out smelling of beer.”
Somewhere, I see him playing with his grandchildren, on a playground, or in a room full of toys. One of them is tearing off the head of a Marvel figurine.
This memory had been lost in layers of time. I only recently remembered it. I would have been around 7 – 8 years old. We had driven to a house…
My father, like my mother, died in 2016. My father died nine months after my mother passed. Having already spoken to my mother, I thought it would also be valuable to speak with Pietro.
My mother, Teresa, died in 2016 and I haven’t seen her or spoken to her since. Except for this rare discussion.
Do children ever really know what their parents are like? Do they ever realise their parents have a life that’s broader and more expansive than just parenting? Do they ever…
Ameriga was any place that, at the time, was richer than Sicily. In the late 1950s, that would be quite a long list. So Australia was Ameriga. A land where gold flowed in the streets, and all that was required was to stoop down and pick it up.
I can’t imagine the conversation between my grandmother and one of her daughters-in-law. The subject is my mother, Teresa.
She looks around and approaches. Our faces are so close I savour the scent of the anti-bacterial spray used to thoroughly clean her plexi face protector.
People often ask me what it feels like to be literally married to something or something that you’ve never seen and never will.