With her imagination bright like the jewels embedded through her jade green eyes,
Catalina hurried back to the main square.
Her father had said if he could find a slate tile to perfectly match the beauty of her iris’, he would be the richest man in the Friulian region.
“Don’t speak like such a fool!” her mother would say, and Catalina too thought it silly, but she would give anything to hear him say those words again.
After his death, she had left in search of the only other living relative she knew she had.
Zia (aunt) Maralette.
Of her she knew nothing.
Not the colour of hair on her head, the taste of her homemade Cannoli (from which all Italian women were judged), nor the name of the street in which she lived.
Similarly Catalina wondered what her aunt knew of her, if anything at all.
In a quest seen only as bittersweet, she had left for the island responsible for more than her own internal mysteries and fascinations.
© elenaxtina.com, 2015