Orvieto

Written for https://lifeafter50forwomen.com/category/what-do-you-see/

Alessandra didn’t care; she sang out of tune. Mamma Maria; her mum’s favourite song. When it played on the radio, nothing could hurt her. Italian dialects filled the air. A lost language – too painful to be spoken. Yet, in song, love shared an allowance of hope.

The kitchen is for singing, dancing, and aromas of home.

With a gentle last tap on the percolator, brown hurricanes swirled around. Bubbles rose to the top before sinking back to the bottom. Despite the humidity, she preferred to start her day with a shot of caffeine. Instant never hit the same spot.

Her favourite mug had the Goldilocks effect. Not too small, not too large; just the right size. A unexpected leaving gift from one of her students. Within minutes, she emptied the cup, her hands wrapped around the handle.          

Sat at her kitchen table, Alessandra doom scrolled down her mobile. Short videos of her favourite show, Call The Midwife, popped onto the screen. For a minute, she stopped before she moved on the next clip. Fixed on an infinite doom scroll, she snapped into hyper-focus.

Ping, ping, ping. Out of her musings, she checked her WhatsApp. A smiling face with a heart emoji popped onto the screen. Alessandra, you do anything later? Do you want to go into town? We could meet at Tony’s Café, have a chatter.

She tentatively reached across the pine counter and picked up a pale blue envelope. For days, the ability to open the letter disintegrated her courage. Was it nothing more than a polite request to leave the past alone? Too many years had passed for a reconciliation? Yet, if it were her brothers, she wouldn’t want them to disappear from her life.

She contemplated her favourite painting — a picturesque cottage, dropped into the countryside and covered in golden marigolds. Two girls sat in the garden, arms intertwined. What was beyond the painting? Her mum’s home? Crossed paths, never quite meeting.

They looked so alike, with the same auburn hair. Thirty years of silence. Even with social media, Facebook, her mum never wanted to relive the hurt.

Alessandra closed her eyes. Imagined the grass threading through her fingers.

After the last arduous year, with wigs and chemotherapy, she found hope within its deft strokes and elaborate meanderings.  

She followed the sprawling handwriting, which ran through the paper. With a deep breath, or more like a sigh, she moved her mobile further away. She tried to imagine her aunt Bella. Why had her mum been so afraid to get back in contact with her sister? Was it her right to open up old wounds? Her dad’s voice urged her forward. She gingerly tore open the top of the letter and unfolded the aromatic paper.

The scent of lavender brought a familiar smile to her face. ‘’What do you think, Dad?’ Lost words spiralled in her head, almost answering, she continued with her conversation. ‘She is lonely, and when I go back to work . . .’ she stopped, as the clouds drifted slowly apart, leaving a fractured blue and white sky.

She wasn’t sure what work looked like these days. She loved being an English teacher, using words to create something different. Stories with nothing more than letters on the page, which brought characters to life.

Words held a special meaning; and reading her students’ notes, as she recovered from her chemotherapy treatment, caused her to glimpse a forgotten smile. Safely tucked inside a metal tin of memories, she recalled each beautiful spelling mistake. They supported her through the times when she couldn’t face another treatment, or when her hair fell out in clumps.

The most unlikely boy sent a brief note. Dyslexic and with ADHD, he shared his story with pride. You are strong Mis, What is it you told me, wen I was nervus about my exam? Be yourself, a good story is werth telling then write from the hart. You have many storis to tell, share them with pride.

‘I have to do this,’ she said, her fingers opening the single sheet of paper, with an aromatic scent of violets.

My Bambino, Alessandra

Your lettera, bellissimo. You have gone through so much. Why didn’t your mama tell me? It has been too long. My many letters come back unopened.  Please  tell her, my telephone number, it hasn’t changed. It is easy to pick up a phone,. Call me. She can come back home to Orvieto. You tell her she has no choice. Two tickets with this letter. You stay with me. I know that your mama is still hurting, but she must talk. The country air will help your health to improve and I know that you will love Italy as much as your mama. I have put my telephone number at the bottom of my letter. You ring me anytime, I would love to hear your voice.

Ciao

J’adore

Zia Bella

xxx

Her hands trembled as she held the airplane tickets. Lost for words, tears did the talking instead. How could she possibly take up her auntie’s offer? She hadn’t even been honest about sending it.

Yet, Bella had sounded so like her mum.

Maybe this was just the trip they all needed. It was somewhere to recover. Think about what to do next. She was getting close to forty. If there was ever a time for change, it was now. Her passport was still valid. It wasn’t impossible to change her plans. The more Alessandra thought about it, the more enthusiastic she became. The very thought of meeting family brought a freshness to an outlook on life that had become stale of late.

Could she have her blood test a little earlier? Her mum, she needed her sister. All the bluster hid a smoke-screen for not wanting to be alone.

A brief message typed on her mobile. Aunty Bella, I will talk to Mum later. I’ll let you know what she says. Her message deleted, she typed again: Zia Bella, thank you, I’ll ring you soon. She typed on WhatsApp; Mum would love to meet you in town, about ten.

She sent it, not sure what she was going to say when she got there.