Purarì l'Alma

After years of suspended stillness, on Via Simonetta in Cosenza, the front door slowly opens again.
It doesn’t want to startle whoever is inside.

The light in the entrance struggles to redraw the silhouette of the ceramic figurines in the living room.

At once, a scent of face powder and a faint trace of cooking wrap around me like velvet.

I am home, and my eyes grow moist.

Dust has covered everything; it has stopped time.

The floors remember footsteps.
The mirrors, her figure.
The mink stole still rests on the armchair, as if it had been placed there the evening before.
I look for the mint candies—they are always there, a certainty.

If it weren’t for the dust, it would seem she had only stepped out for a moment.

We open the windows, one by one.
The air changes.
The voices return.

The crystal droplets begin to catch the light again; our faces intertwine, blur together in the mirrors and glass cabinets, as if they were one.
As if we were her.