Abia remembered places how she tasted sweets. Sour and sweet, sour and sweet. The ones that were delightfully ordinary and ones that were treats. Cities like candy in a powdered box they were there to relish, to reminisce.
Nova Fribrugo was high up in the mountains. It carried mist through it’s air and whistles in it’s winds. Her childhood home was like a dark chocolate humbug, or a sea salted caramel. It oozed with tradition, with sweetness and familiarity, but left an aftertaste of indifference.
Merolas was a sugar coated fruit cube. Covered in snowy sweetness it was soft to touch, full of flavour and adventure. But it’s taste was ambiguous if you did not let it settle on your tongue, too sharp if left there for too long, too much in one mouthful and you might choke.
© elenaxtina.com, 2015 in Skies over A Shanty Town
The Story Torcello Told Tomaso
As a boy, Tomaso harvested the olive vineyards of Sicily.
As a prisoner, the vines of Torcello.
Day upon day in the daze of heat, chains bound to his neck, sweat drenching his back,
he would pluck at earthy fruits and dwell in years out of reach.
The age he had first heard the word. Terrone.
One Summer, the Sun had not shone with it’s usual pride,
and profits of olio did nothing for Almari Fortune. Tomaso, his father, and his brother traveled to Firenze in hunt for lavoro (labor/work).
They took seven of their best mosaics, between them all that they could carry.
Ceramic pots studded with millefiori (multicoloured glass), glass tureens melted with aventurine, potted vase with Sage green and Chrystal yellow tiles, the colori of Sicilia.
At the chime for Market, recognized because their own was similar, they set up on the bank side, eager to sell.
“Listen to chiacchierio (chatter), for murmurs of work” instructed their father.
But from the flurrying crowd, Tomaso heard only whispers of hostility, whispers of loathing.
Schifoso. Terrone. Di Cazzo.
Through a thousand faces, he spotted a father with two sons, standing, starring. Not a word passed their lips, not one word needed to.
Six eyes burned with resentment.
In the reflection of Ceramica, he saw the weather in his fathers skin, the dirt under his nails, the scuro deep in his pupils.
This was the first time he had seen his family through their eyes. And he realised they were different.
Tomaso covered the ears of his brother, and hoped his eyes were too innocent to see.
© elenaxtina.com, 2015