Le Sorelle Rossetti
Carmela, Raffaella, Nonna Teresa, Lucia, Anna, Antonia — the most precious names I have ever known.
I imagine that I looked up into their faces as a new born baby and recognized each of them instantly. Their eyes are our eyes; their homes and stories are ours too. Outside there is a stone fountain we would bathe in, climb on and fall from. There are giant nude statues of women tucked away in the green arborvitae trees that lined the backyard. I secretly choose which one I would be if I ever froze in time and space while life and laughter and children flowed around me. There is the garden of vegetables whose names we only knew in Italian for the first few years of life and a fig tree that grows in the center of it all. She becomes heavy and bountiful at the end of each summer, which initiates the week long ritual of making and jarring enough tomato sauce for the winter. We would fill pools with fresh water to wash the red fruit. Empty jars with basil leaves waited in the shade for the smooth sauce to be poured on its leaves. The two together created the alchemy that would nourish our love for another year.
Play smelled like basil for it lined the driveway where we would ride bikes and make up songs on the long days of childhood. Then we were a tribe of seventeen kids (more came later), running back and forth on Clove Road from zia’s to nonna’s to the playground across the street and back to nonna’s again in time for dinner. We all belonged together, to one another. As babies we were passed from one embrace to another, worshiped with kisses, celebrated for our tiny gifts that shined through in our youth. I have learned so much about love through being loved by these women. Each does this greatest act in her own way: Carmela with her lioness-like protection and resilience (she will always fight for you), Lella with her wildness and conviction (she will encourage you dance on any table), Nonna with her offerings (like any good Italian woman she will always wonder what you ate today), Zia Lu with her radiance (just being near her is enough), Mamma with her art and care for all (she is always creating more beauty in the world), and Zia Antonia with her abundant depth and generosity (I am in awe of her capacity to love).
Often I meet others who resemble the women who raised me. I imagine that they too must have met love, loss and unity at a profound level in this life to remind me of the ones I love most in this world. Because of the many women they are, I see them everywhere I go. Even in this foreign country I now call home: they are in the girls walking arm in arm to school, in the birds busy with their morning songs, in my French neighbor who brings me fruit from his trees. Everywhere I step, there they are.
And so I say to the greatest women in my life, even though we are far from one another, it is because of you that I am free to roam this earth with a sense of belonging in my heart.