Stepping off Friulian soil and into an exotic new paradise,
Catalina carried the memories of her parents.
Her Mother, she knew would have never approved of her journey.
With dark skin and darker eyes, she was a wicked woman, with a tongue quick to spite and a vicious back hand.
The Village consensus was that she had only married her father
to satisfy her own selfish greed. For a roof over her head.
When Catalina was born with Jewel green eyes, her madre refused to believe she was her own, as if bore by magic.
Her father was a humble man, whose only wealth lay in the Friulian craft of pottery.
She never understood why he would act ashamed when asked about his profession,
the mosaics that lay in his workshop had mesmerized her all her life.
How he would have loved to see this island of colour, she thought,
Where decorated glass laced every window,
Where such crafts were praised and held in the highest esteem.
A pang rose in the back of her throat, and she rushed to clutch the sanded tile,
hanging on a chain around her neck.
© elenaxtina.com, 2015