The Story Torcello told Tomaso
The last Island. The Solitario. The abandoned export engulfed in Venetian Aqua. Voiceless in the shadows of it’s brothers it held a silent determination to breathe.
Here, Tomaso did not feel like an outsider.
The day he had arrived, the burden of a grueling journey over his face, He was shoved into the communal holding.
His eyes caught the light of a barred window on the west wall.
A room with a view, he chuckled.
Every evening at the time of sundown, he gazed down shore to local Fisherman casting nets into the closing tide. When thrown up to the sky to submerge into the sea, they looked like gigantic translucent bubbles.The light settled behind them, the sky a perfect brush stroke of crimson.
He had arrived as a prisoner, as a prisoner he would leave, but he appreciated the sight that this had given him.
Here he was terrone, (southern Italian), he was as dirt, a worker of the land. He was little more than Schiavo (slave) to locals and exporters.
But for two years, terrone and native alike had looked out upon the same turquoise ocean, the same humming glow of sunsets,
and neither could see what Tomaso saw.
© elenaxtina.com, 2015