The door of the house on Via Simonetta 18 opens timidly, after years of suspended quiet.
My eyes barely have time to adjust to the dim light when a familiar scent of powder and flowers, mixed with kitchen aromas, wraps around me like a velvet cloak and awakens every sensation.
I am home.
Dust has covered everything. It has stopped time.
I move through the dark rooms. The floors begin to shine again to the rhythm of my heart,
which now and then asks to slow down for all the fragile and fierce emotions these rooms awaken in me.
The house is in apparent order. It seems that Donna Alma has just stepped out.
My gaze tries to betray reality: her shadow shimmers behind the glass door of the kitchen. Even the mirrors seem to remember her figure.
They had closed the house as if nothing had happened, as if she were still there, within those rooms. Since then, no one had entered again.
"I’ll be there. I’ll leave the door open. It would be lovely if you came to join me."
One by one, they all arrived, and the dust flew away.
The voices came back to life, the rooms to their former splendor. The crystal drops of the chandeliers reflected our faces, joining them together, almost as one.
As if we were her: mother, grandmother, confidante, and accomplice, a safe harbor in the storm, a model for each of us.
© Alma Claudia Cosenza. All rights reserved. No image may be used or reproduced without written permission.