My Italy, Her Italy

by Peter Cherone

 For me it is the Sistine Ceiling.
It is the taste of gelato melting on my tongue.
It is the rear end of David.

It is also the stories my grandmother told
of her childhood in a convent
her many hours spent kneeling
before the statue of the Virgin
with her arms outstretched in imitation
of Him who was sacrificed to save the soul
of a little girl who believed
she was unworthy of His act of grace
and in the family for which she waited to take der home
but never came.
It was the priest who told her it was alright
to steal food from the nuns if she was truly hungry
and she always was
but it was never satisfied.
She says she envied the mice
who scurried for crumbs on the floor.
At least they could run.

For me it was the climb to the top of Saint Peter's.
It was my excitement when I saw the city
spread out like a manicured garden
from the top of that aerie.
It was tossing coins in a fountain
and making a wish
then supper in an alley
near the Trastevere
where the air was fragnant with a mix
of herbs I knew as well as my own scent
and wine and the odor
of unleaded gasoline
that all conspired to make
my head feel light.
We were dressed in linen.
The padrone flirted with my mother.
He sent over a mandolin player.
We listened to the music
and the sounds of mopeds
and the artless thud of tourists' clogs
on cobblestones
and marveled at the country
from which we were descended.

It was the stone floors my grandmother had to scrub
and the way she was told never to look
directly into another's face.
This was to avoid the evil eye.
It was the eyeglasses she wasn't permitted to wear
because they were considered a sign of vanity.
They gave her earrings instead to improve her sight.
She was told to cast her eyes down
to follow the hems of black habits
and never to raise her voice above a whispered prayer.
it is the cracked photograph of her at twelve
her tense mouth and her large pale eyes
that dare the camera to get closer.
She says she was bored with daily rosaries
that she had enough church as a girl
to last the rest of her life.
It was a year of typhoid and her best friend dying
from smallpox and the war
that came close enough to keep her awake at night.
She dreamed of a place across the ocean
where she could run
and laugh out loud
and unlock her forbidden secrets.
She tells me these dreams sustained her
during her years in the convent
which was the only Italy she ever knew.

For me it is a high speed train through the Appenines.
It is watching boats on the river from the Ponte Vecchio.
It is finding a place to sit at the Mercato Centrale
to lunch on zuppa die pesce
where I speak bad schoolbook Italian
to a man at my table.

She asks me why I want to go there
where all they do is pray and wait for God to take them.
I say because I want to understand this place
we came from where beauty has been layered
century upon century.
Grandma, I say, let me take you with me next time
and all she does is look at me
like I'm crazy.