6.15.2008

But seriously...

Here's something I wrote in 2000 while at the University of New Hampshire. Why do I post it to the web now? Because I feel I should post something and I was always kind of pleased with this story. Though it could certainly use some brushing up.

Il tempo
This excerpt was taken from the Boston Globe on November 17, 2000.
ROME -- Heavy rains washed trains off the lines on Friday and uncovered corpses buried for nearly a century as Italy was hit by its third bout of rainstorms in a month....In the northern coastal region of Liguria, streams of water washed away the earth and uncovered the dead in a cemetery in the village of Manarola. Dozens of corpses were left exposed and will have to be reburied once the rains stop, provincial officials said.


The bones meant nothing to her. Many gray objects were carried past the windows as the rain furrowed the streets and hills, and she could hardly tell which sticks were bones and which weren’t. It was all a swelling of humanity, from the water logged wooden chairs to the broken vases, all were the remnants of history.

Grandmothers from the old neighborhood would wail and turn their heads, lamenting that great grand papa’ was now indistinguishable from uncle so and so as they watched the rising current of dirt and rain curl through the streets. Old men would joke with each other, yelling across the muddy divide about how old families would start new feuds as their bones mingled in the saturated earth. Despite their mirth, they would unwittingly cross their bodies as they turned away from their taunting. Boys and girls would fish for bones, and once they hooked them together they would beat out a crude, hollow time with the pieces and sing about old men and the pouring rain. Horrified mothers would snatch the bones away from their children and scold them with rapid words. Not knowing what else to do with the reminders of death, the mothers would throw them back out into the torrent all the while muttering to God for forgiveness.

But the bones did not bother her.

“Figurati,” she said as she stuck her hand out of the window to feel the pounding of the rain, “after spending so much time in the weather, you get locked up in a place where the only way you can tell it’s raining is by when the wood swells.”

A pool had formed in her palm and created a stream that coursed down her arm and spilled out of the crook of her elbow onto the braided rug. The cloth was already so saturated that the waterfall didn’t affect the faded colors as it spread from the target to the edge. Staccato beating on the roof muffled the splatter of rain from her skin. She had pulled her hair in tightly at the nape of her neck where it swelled with the humidity, straining for release from the plastic that confined it.

Eventually she took her hand from the open window and wiped her face with the rain, plastering back the clumps of hair that refused to be bound.

“I remember when we were school girls and would run by the graves di sera, holding our breath until we were almost the shade of the sky above the sunset.” She smiled and asked, “We live so close I always wondered why we didn’t go around with our bellies sucked in and our teeth in our lips all the time. With the fear that our families put into us it’s amazing that we didn’t benedire just because someone thought of sneezing.”

By this time the tea was done. It was so strong and black that the steam from the kettle neck seemed to rise up brown right at the lip before it mingled with the gray air inside the flat. To put sugar in it was a shame because the bitter taste helped to battle the sweet tang of air thick with earth and ozone. She filled the blue cups to the line where countless cups of tea had marked their passing. After a deep drink she began to muse again.

“They’ll never find all of the pieces. For years madri will be digging rows for their tomatoes and find a chip of something that they know isn’t rock or wood. Children will have collections and show them to each other in secret, before they are taught di aver timore that is.” Her eyebrows lowered and her lips pressed. “I will never comprehend the coffin,” she said as she sipped the steamed nectar. “I would rather be picked clean by ants after I die. Though my skin would be gone before the year I imagine I would still feel the rain on my skull, and I would rather be bleached by the weather than by the worms. If someone loved me enough they would keep le mie ossa around and place them among the things of the house. A toe in a teacup or a pinkie out with the linen pins in the breeze. For once in my life I would be able to smile coyly when someone asked me a question and not run the risk of those smart answers that my father says keep me in trouble.”

She knew that her father’s bones were locked away in a fancy box with silk lining and brass handles. Still, she continued to talk about him as if he forever sat by the stove and would always tell her that strong ideas chase the men away. Her eyes glittered like his used to every time her tongue got away from her.

“You would keep me around wouldn’t you?” her eyes almost pleaded as the rest of her face remained set. Sweat beaded her lips and it was hard to tell if it was her conversation or the weather. “Please don’t lock me up to let my skin melt and pool stagnant around me. Boil me if you have to and fertilize the roses with my brains. String me together with wire and set me by the stove in papa’s chair so I’ll be warm in the winter and always have the company of the kitchen. You can even hang my skull in the closet by the coats if guests can’t handle my presence, but leave me in the air.”

No promises could be made and as the steam eddied between us. She looked to her empty teacup and the layers of stains that matted the blue ceramic. After a moment she filled the shallow vessel again with the strong brew and returned to the window where the mist soaked the hair on her arms, which had just begun to dry. “Even if you must keep my bones in a box above ground,” she spoke out the window to the mud and slate sky,” you must promise me one thing. You must take me out in la pioggia.”

Slowly the kettle steamed on the stove and the flames struggled against the heavy air. Inside the cups another layer was stained and the blue ceramic faded behind the never-ending rain.

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