"D" Stands for Diavolo!

I was tired that morning, because I had cleaned two cottages in a row. In the second one, I had to scour the tile floor on my hands and knees, scraping with a butter knife. The man who rented the cottage must be a painter and a sculptor too. Why had he not thought to use a cloth to cover the floor? My God, some people! What he left behind were scraps of hard clay, and large splotches of pink and yellow, light purple and a shade of green, the ugliest color I've ever seen.

But now I was done, I had a break of at least an hour and a half before Signora Strada's house. I was looking for a place to sit in the sand and eat my bread and provolone. I had brought along my diary because more often than not, I would write down a thought, an impression, another description of the clear turquoise water, that sparkled like gems in the sunshine.

Afterward, when my fall from grace was sealed and complete, I would blame my misfortune on the fact that he had the most beautiful reddish blonde hair, his head was chock full of curls, each ring with a kind of shadow. Nobody had hair like that, certainly not in Paola -- for sure not in Paola. Or for that matter, no one in all of Cosenza.

Nobody was as tall as this man was either! He had to be, I tried to calculate, almost two heads taller than me, making him nearly six feet! I had never seen anyone blessed with such stature, nor had I seen such clear blue green eyes like his -- eyes that exactly reflected the sky or the ocean or both.

When he approached me, at the edge of the sea, he stopped. He was carrying a pair of casual shoes the likes of which I had never seen before. They looked to be made from cloth or linen. Who wore shoes like that? How could you possibly keep them clean?

But it was the fact that he had a rather large leather notebook in his hands that made me so curious. Could he be a painter? Or a writer like me? He smiled at me, a wide and comfortable smile, as if he already knew me. So surprised was I by this confident gaze that I too stopped. Right away I felt my heart bumping in my chest. Our eyes locked, and then color rushed into my face and I forced myself to pass by. I glanced down at the stained apron I wore and the sack-like dress beneath and I felt a wave of such deep shame.

I picked up the apron and twisted it off over my head. And then I looked back at him and I was astonished to find that he was still standing there staring at me. He was clutching his notebook as if it was a lover. He smiled again, and nodded in a knowing way, as if he was certain that one way or another, something would be coming from me.

Who was this man? How could he have such "facia," such face? So rude, and yet so handsome and so perfectly at ease with his boldness! Where had he come from? But instantly I knew. He was one of those wealthy people from far up north, the folks who come to visit "the boot" as they call it. Southern Italy. They come to be here in the sun and the sand, "sole e sabbia."

I passed my hand over my hair, tightly bound in a knot. What was this feeling? Was I, could I be in love, oh but how could I be, I was barely 17, and I had seen him for only a few short minutes. In that moment, though, I could imagine him touching the skin of both of my arms and I shivered.

I walked as far as I could to get away from him and sat down in the sand near my favorite pile of rocks. I wrapped my arms around my knees. I sat there feeling locked up. I couldn't possibly eat a thing. I couldn't stop trembling. No matter how tightly I held onto my knees my arms shivered. As hard as I could, I tried as hard as I could to put him out of my mind. I vowed that I would forget that I had seen him by the seashore.

But a vision of his eyes and his hair and his smile and his towering height, all of it was branded front and center in my mind.

All this happened on a Friday at the end of February. It was Lent, and so when I finished wiping and sweeping and scouring the Strada cottage in the afternoon, I walked to the Sanctuary of Saint Francis of Paola where I often go to think about life.

I sat there, drinking in the pale pink and blue walls. I thought that if I could just fill up my mind with images of Jesus and all those saints and holy ones then I wouldn't think about the man with the blonde curls and eyes the color of the sea.

No matter that I remained in the chapel for well over an hour. No matter that I breathed slowly in and out the whole time, and that I kept squeezing my eyes shut tightly, hoping to rid myself of all temptation. Still, when I opened my eyes, he was right there, square in sight.

And then the pink of the walls turned on me: they made me think of pink flesh and I grew so terrified of my thoughts and feelings that followed -- skin, skin, skin -- pelle, pelle, pelle -- that I quickly left the sanctuary and hurried into the street. My body was consumed by a strange heat that felt like it wrapped me in a warm blanket.

When I got home, Mama was washing escarole in a wooden tub in the sink. She asked me why I was so late coming home and I felt so fortunate that I was able to tell her the absolute truth: "I felt that I needed to be in the church today Mama. I needed to pray. So I went and sat."

Mama looked at me with one eye slightly shut, an accusatory glance, and suddenly I felt like a slut, una "puttana" as Mama would say, a term she used so often when she saw a girl with a blouse that pulled too tightly across her bosom, or a woman who dared to wear her skirts above her ankle. Certainly the word suited me today.

That night I sank into bed, my head filled with images of this man I labeled "diavola," the devil. I took my diary into bed with me and wrote a description of him followed by the words: "And then he was gone! Amen!" I had never touched myself before, because the priest so often talked about that evil, but now I couldn't help it, I gave into the urges, all the while hating myself for being such a lowly sinner. I vowed that the following day, I wouldn't dare walk on the beach. That thought calmed me and finally I sank into sleep.

I dreamed that I lived in a tiny cottage beside the ocean with a blue and white tile floor. I had filled my cottage with more and more statues -- the Virgin Mary, Saint Francis, and even a statue of Saint Filomena, my namesake, the saint of infants, babies and young people. I was sitting there in my cottage, drinking a cafe when there was a knock on the door. I knew who it was of course and still, knowing what I did, I opened the door wide. Diavola came inside, smiling the whole time.

I awoke with a start, my heart pounding, and I sat up straight in bed. I took up my diary again. I scribbled: "Dear God, I hate feeling this way: like someone has turned me inside out from head to foot, so that nothing I feel or think can be hidden from anyone!"

I decided to visit my friend Nunzi that morning. Nunzi is my best friend but more like a big sister. But would she understand if I confessed what had happened?

"Wait," I cried out, holding the palm of my hand against my forehead. "NOTHING HAS HAPPENED!" As soon as the words had escaped my lips, I worried that I had spoken too loud, that Mama in the next room had heard.

I dressed quickly and left the tiny room where I sleep and I crept into the room that holds the woodstove. I took the wooden pail off its hook and left the house and walked the cobblestone streets until I came to the central square where the communal fountain is. I filled the pail at one of the spigots, grateful that it was so early that no one else was awake. I came back to the house and filled the espresso pot with water and coffee. I would make coffee as soon as Mama woke up.

At that moment, there was a knock on the door and I started. My heart started slamming against my chest. I had to answer it, didn't I? But what if it was... Oh but how foolish I was being! How could he possibly find me?

Slowly I opened the door, hoping against all logic that it was him, the man I now referred to in my thoughts and my diary simply as D.

There was Nunzi! I held one hand against my heart, hoping I could stop it from pounding.

"Come in, come in," I said, amazed that she would show up so early.

"So my friend, what is going on with you? I haven't seen you in two days!" Nunzi stood with hands on her hips.

My lips trembled. My arms started shaking too. How was it that Nunzi always knew when something was up with me?

"I...I don't know what you mean," I said, busying myself by lighting the woodstove.

"Look at me Filo," Nunzi said.

And so I slowly turned to face my friend. I kept my gaze low.

She started chuckling. "I said look at me, ragazza! Show me your eyes!"

I stood up tall and gazed at Nunzi. And then I smiled. I feel like my friend can peer directly into my soul!

"I don't understand how you always know." I lowered my gaze again. "But when I tell you what happened you will understand that it is nothing, really nothing at all."

"Oh yes, well if that's so, how come your cheeks are flushed with such a lovely rosy color?"

I shook my head and proceeded to tell Nunzi about my encounter with D. In the telling, though, I left out certain points, namely that I hadn't been able to stop my trembling. Naturally, I left out the dream too.

"Well, my dear friend, it sounds like you have a crush on this handsome stranger! I am glad that someone finally recognizes how beautiful you are. But just be careful Fi, you know how men can be!"

"Oh Nunzi, really, I told you, it's absolutely nothing. And you know too that I hate it when you lecture me..." I was about to say "like Mama does," but I didn't because at that very moment, Mama came into the kitchen.

"Well and what is the lecture for, my dear Nunzi?"

Nunzi smiled her most beguiling smile. "Oh Signora I am just trying to convince Filo to take a job for me. I have more than I bargained for this week." Nunzi winked at me.

"That sounds like something Fi ought to do! Wouldn't you agree Fi?" Mama smiled at me and turned the heat under the coffee. When it was done, she poured for the three of us. We sat and sipped, as we so often do, and soon Nunzi excused herself.

Later, when I was sweeping the kitchen, I thought back to what Nunzi said. She is very protective, and I am grateful for that, but when she lectures me, ah, it makes me crazy. When I was a little girl, and Papa was still alive, I remember his stern words, and his creased forehead. I dreaded when Papa, a normally loving and cheerful man, got this way, and today I found myself irritated that my best friend felt she had to warn me once again about how men can be! We have talked that subject to death!

Which is how I justified going back to the beach again, just about the same hour as the day before. In my mind I deserved this walk by the sea, just to make myself feel better. I wouldn't admit to myself that I was dying to see D again.

Today, however, I made sure to sweep my hair up into an elegantly braided top knot. And I wore my navy blue cotton dress, with a large white collar. It might not be at all suitable to the beach, but it is the only decent dress that I own.

My heart started beating faster as soon as I unlaced my boots and stepped into the sand. I had my shoes dangling from my first two fingers, just the way that D had his cloth shoes swinging from his hand the day before. I walked the entire length of the beach and when I reached the end I had to decide: should I pace the beach back in the other direction? And in that moment I knew it would be sinful to search for this handsome stranger.

Altogether embarrassed by my desire, I decided to leave the beach. If anyone from Paola saw me parading back and forth on the sand, wearing my best dress, they would get "a half idea" --"una mezza idea" about me, as my mother put it. The idea being that the woman, me in this case, was looking for something -- or someone-- she shouldn't be looking for.

As I wiped the sand off my feet and put on my stockings and boots, I decided to visit the St. Francis sanctuary for a second day in a row. I had found my time there calming and if I needed anything right now, it was to calm myself.

As I left the beach I sat down on a low wall momentarily, and gazed out at the sea. I thought, if only I had brought my diary. But Mama doesn't approve of me "writing in the street," as she puts it -- "scrivere per strada." We have big arguments over this! You see, my last name being Scrivano -- scribe in Italian -- I feel it is my right, to write as much as I can, and anywhere I please. Mama is not of the same mind and it makes me furious!

"I love if you write, but Filo, please, honey, do it at night when you are in your bed, in private!"

I bent over to brush the sand from my boots. I stood up and gasped. There was D right across the street. I'm sure my mouth dropped open. He smiled at me and crossed the street.

"Why are you leaving the beach on such a lovely day?" he asked. He was carrying his leather notebook again, and a pen, but he slipped them into a colorful cloth bag. He didn't stop smiling. I looked up at him and squinted into the sun. I felt the blood flushing into my cheeks again. And instantly I was tongue-tied. He spoke such beautiful Italian, I was ashamed to think that as soon as I spoke, he would know that I was of a low class.

And because of that, I didn't say a word, at least not at first. I smiled, though, and nodded, and I pointed in the direction I was walking. He followed me, taking one step for my every three.

"Oh so you are unable to talk?" he asked, looking serious for a moment. "How sad and difficult that must be for you!" And then he smiled that smile that stops me dead in my tracks!

I stopped walking and found myself laughing.

"Ah but you are able to laugh," he said, "which after all, is probably so much more important than speaking."

I turned to face him. "I am perfectly able to speak, but I generally do not speak to strangers!"

"Oh well that. Let me introduce myself: I am Giovanni Masiero, so now you know my name, I am no longer a stranger."

Ah, I thought, here we have what Mama would call a smooth talker -- "un parlatore tranquillo." I cleared my throat. "I'm afraid you are still a stranger to me." I spoke softly and I tried to hold my head high, and I continued on my way to the church. Naturally, I hoped he would follow. Which he did, all the way staying a respectable distance behind me.

Soon we were there, in the square before the church. I was trying to decide how I could politely take my leave of him before I entered St. Francis. I walked slowly up the stairs, and turned.

"May I accompany you inside?" he asked, sounding very polite.

My eyes widened. It never occurred to me that he would want to go into the sanctuary. And of course there was no reason he couldn't except...

What if someone happened to see us together? I wondered whether it was a sin for me to be seen inside a church in the company of a man who perhaps was ten years older than me, a man I cannot stop thinking about. My heart hammering, I was about to tell him he couldn't come in. And then he smiled at me again and my resolve evaporated.

"I suppose that it wouldn't hurt if..." and before I could finish, he met me at the top step, scooped up my hand in his and led me inside the pink sanctuary.

The walls were so much the color of flesh, the smell of the incense was so strong, and his hand felt so warm and supportive holding my hand. Here I was growing dizzy going down the aisle of the church.

"It is a most beautiful sanctuary, don't you agree?" he whispered. I nodded my head yes. Before I knew it, my thoughts were tumbling forward and I actually saw myself walking down the aisle in a wedding dress, while he awaited me at the front near the altar. At that exact moment, the priest, Father Crudele, stepped into the front of the church. My eyes flew wide and I felt sweat sprouting out of my scalp and my armpits and the white neckline of my navy blue dress.

Without thinking, I steered D into a pew and plunked myself down. I let go of his hand and kneeled and right away clasped my hands in prayer.

"Please God," I prayed in silence, "Please let there be an earthquake right now so that I don't have to make an introduction of this man Giovanni to Father Crudele, because I know the priest well enough and he will certainly tell me to my face what he has told me and so many others before: "You are headed straight to Hell!" -- "Sei diretto dritto all'inferno!"

As I watched the priest come down the aisle, my heart began slamming at my ribcage and my mouth grew so dry that my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. Oh my dear God what what what shall I say to him, how can I possibly explain that I was just holding hands with this handsome stranger?

And then, just when I felt so woozy I thought perhaps I would faint, I saw something I rarely see: Father Crudele with a broad smile, and his hands reaching out to either side, as if he were the Pope welcoming his flock.

"My dear Signore, how kind of you to do us the favor of a visit!"

I blinked. My mouth dropped open. I could be forgiven for thinking I was hearing things. But no, the priest was actually standing three feet away, in the aisle, and he was actually talking to Giovanni in a manner that I rarely if ever hear him speak to anyone. His eyes had a sheen of kindness that I had never seen directed at me or Mama or anyone else I know for that matter.

"Hello Father, I am pleased to see you looking so well." Giovanni bowed his head slightly and then stared at the priest while he gestured his hand toward me. "I had the great privilege of meeting one of your parishioners, and she asked me to accompany her here." My head was in a kind of spin by now. How was I to make sense of all this? How could I possibly....

And then it hit me. Money. Whoever this Giovanni character was, he or his family had donated handsomely to Crudele's coffer. Otherwise, why would the priest offer Giovanni such a sleasy smile?

"Oh yes, Signore, Filomena Scrivano is one of my favorites," Crudele said, nodding his head -- with that thin balding hair -- in my direction. I nodded too, and attempted a smile, thinking all the while that I had never before heard the priest refer to me as one of his favorites. I was still kneeling, and then I realized I ought to be standing up, as both men were. I pushed myself to stand and held onto the back of the pew in front of me.

Just wait until I tell Nunzi, was all I could think.

"When you two have finished with your prayers, please come to the rectory for a glass of wine!" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Had I ever heard the priest invite anyone in all of Paola to share a glass of the wine he so carefully hoarded? My stomach started into a roll, and then it twisted, and for one horrible moment, I thought I might vomit. I took a big breath in, and wondered if I could bow out of this invitation. Again I felt dizzy and so I was profoundly relieved when the priest finally turned back toward the front of the sanctuary and disappeared from view.

I dropped into the pew. I turned to Giovanni and without thinking I said, "Who exactly are you that our priest is so glad you are here?"

D threw back his head of dirty blonde curls and laughed out loud, so loud that I grew nervous. "I am a just a poet, Filomena Scrivano. And because of your last name, I think that you too are a scribe!"

It felt like he was seeing right through me. He knew my name and he knew that my heart beats for writing.

He placed his hand on the cloth bag he was carrying. "Perhaps I will write a poem for you, my dear girl!" And then he stared straight at me and drew one hand very gently beneath my chin, as if I were a child, and then I felt his fingers trace my jaw, and land on my lips. The feeling sent warm chills through me, but scared me to my core. No one had ever touched me like this before!

I couldn't take one more minute of this. I rose and Giovanni tried to take hold of my elbow but I pulled away and stepped in front of him and into the aisle.

"I must go home," I whispered.

"But this is a church, dear girl, you are quite safe here, I promise you," he said.

I gazed at him and his curls for one more minute and I realized that I was just as afraid of myself as I was of him. Raising my hand in goodbye, I fled the sanctuary, grateful for the fresh air and sunshine. I smoothed a few stray hairs into my bun, and with my hands and arms trembling at my sides, I headed as calmly as I could toward home.

And when I got there, Mama was out. Thankfully. I went directly to my bed and pulled my diary into my lap and wrote:

Who could this man be

who overnight has turned me upside down

with simply a smile?

Already I have walked down the aisle of

the Sanctuary of St. Paola

with him,

me in a white dress.

At that moment, I heard Mama walk in the door, so I slipped the diary under my mattress.

What a day it had been! What was I going to tell Mama about it?

I shook my head.

Absolutely nothing! Assolutamente niente!

G-D BOUND: The Divine Journey Within

By Dr. Mel Waldman

(Inspired by Robert Ornstein’s book GOD 4.0 with Sally M. Ornstein)

Shall

I taste the cosmic breath of being

feast

on revelations

&

rise up

my

sacred spirit overflowing with awe and wonder

&

with celestial eyes gaze at the stars above & within?

Shall

I see for the very 1st time

&

dance with divinity

&

discover the caress of Kairos

the

visionary time

of

holy moments & inner-worldly unveilings

&

enter Ekstasis

the

ineffable ecstasy

covered

in this deep time

of

sudden revelations mind-altering epiphanies

buried

in the vastness of the micro-universe within?

But

how shall I discover this glorious kingdom

where

blessed phantoms

pirouette

across my hidden mind in a ballet of beatific transcendence?

G-d

bound on the divine journey within

shall

I inhale

unfathomable

illuminations

swallow

eerie visions

&

touch the stars?

Shall

I see what I’ve never seen before?

Let

me close my earthly eyes

sit

& bathe

in

the vast darkness of divinity

turn

off the normal way of

perceiving

& bypass

the

antediluvian way

the

survival way

so

I can sing the holy truth

in

the ocean of transcendence

I

am blind in the light

but

in the sacred darkness

my

higher self shall awaken

with

celestial eyes

&

I shall see for

the

very 1st time

conscious

of the oneness

of all

the

overflowing love of the Source

G-d

bound on the divine journey within

Dr. Mel Waldman is a psychologist, poet, writer, and artist. His stories have appeared in dozens of magazines including HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, ESPIONAGE, THE SAINT, and AUDIENCE. He is a past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in Psychoanalysis and was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in literature. He is the author of 11 books.

A Perfect V.

I sit in the village square, mid-day, on a beautiful day in May, in the shade of the awning at the village cafe. The wind blows in from the ocean soft and warm today. I close my eyes, inhale the salty air of the sea and try to let it fill me up. Soon I am drifting away, lying face up in a sailboat, Giovanni's of course, staring into the turqoise sky. G and I are together on the boat with our chubby baby, Pasquale, beneath a towering white sail, and it is fully billowed, taking us toward some magical spot in Greece or Spain.

Instead, I hold in my lap a giant spool of pink and white cotton thread, and now when I open my eyes and set to work again, I am moving the hook swiftly and steadily, tightening the thread, pulling up and looping and tightening, looping and tightening, and slowly but surely, a new shape emerges.

Curled at my feet on the dusty cobblestones is my darling kitten, Gemella. Short for Anima gemella. Soulmate. I would hate to think what my life would be like without this sweet little creature with the bright green eyes.

I bless Adelina for giving her to me. When she first offered the kitten that same day Nunzi and I arrived to pick up "our son," Pasquale, I thought it odd. Why would Lina think I should need a pet? After all, I was getting my son back!

But Adelina knew what she was up to. It quickly became apparent after Nunzi and I arrived back here in Paola, how difficult it would be for us to share the baby.

Oh, there were moments when he was crying without stopping, whether because he had flatulence, or some other noisy complaint. In those moments I was happy to step back and yield him up to Nunzi.

But there were just as many moments when I wanted to keep him all to myself in the rocking chair la sedia a dondolo. Pasquale was after all my baby, wasn't he? Or was he? I had carried him deep inside me for nine months, so close that he could feel and hear my heartbeat. But now, he sleeps every night between Nunzi and her husband, while I am back in my old bed at Mama's.

I am happy to have Gemella sleeping beside me. And it is so reassuring to have her here with me in the square where I sit, crocheting, talking to neighbors who stop by for a few moments to chat.

I bless Mama for teaching me to crochet, because now it appears that this skill will save me from absolute poverty. And also, from insanity too.

I crochet from morning to night: just after first light, even before I have my bread and coffee, I pick up the needle, and try not to think about Nunzi feeding my precious Pasquale la colazione, his breakfast of thick gruel.

My throat tightens and I stop, my chin drops, tears begin leaking from the corners of my eyes, but there is no one to tell my troubles to. I take a big breath in and wipe my eyes and begin crocheting again. Slowly but surely a long piece of pink and white lace grows out of my fingers. I am proud to say that each piece I produce is graceful, each one more intricate than the last.

Sometime during the day, I move to the village square and take up my crocheting there. People stop to chat about this and that. I listen to one or another woman complain: the old women tell me about backaches and swollen ankles, arthritis and indigestion. They lift their skirts to show me their swollen blue varicose veins. The young women tell me they are looking for a husband, they either have no children and desperately want one, or they have too many and are desperate not to get pregnant.

I am deeply grateful to Natale, a childhood friend of Mama's, who came by my table on a day when I had first began working in pink and white cotton. She sat down at the table beside me and asked if she could touch the lace.

"Certo, certo," I replied. I set the lace in her lap, and smiling, she told me the color made her happy! She asked if I wanted to sell the lace. My eyes widened. It hadn't occurred to me to go into business, but now, the idea had some appeal. Natale's face spread into a smile. Her husband, Pietro, is a fisherman in Paola, and he transports the morning's catch by donkey over the mountain to Cosenza. "There is a place I know the owner, I think she would love to sell this!" Lo and behold, Natale is now acting on my behalf selling my lace, first at the store called "Pizzo Perfetto," (Perfect Lace!) where she knows the owner. But then when she was in the store, she met a merchant from Naples, who now takes my crocheted items up north to Naples. Every week, Natale brings me a small pile of lira. But hey, it adds up! So proud Natale is to lay the money on my kitchen table. "How fast can you crochet?" she said, laughing triumphantly last week. "Quanto velocemente puoi lavorare all'uncinetto?"

Apparently, the man she calls Ticardo placed a large order for some of my most popular designs, including the one I call "The Perfect V." It is perfetto for a lady's blouse or nightgown. I am content to crochet my lace, which seems to appeal to some faceless women with a lot of money to spare.

All this should make me feel happy. It does, but still, I am in misery.

Pasquale is now six months old. He is a big boy, with eyes as black as olives and so much straight black hair. Such a magnificent baby, the most beautiful I have ever seen. When I said that to Nunzi recently she laughed at me. "Oh Fi, don't you know, every mother thinks her baby is the most perfect!" That comment irked me. Maybe because Nunzi is forever telling me that I must accept the fact that she is raising Pasquale. But then she makes this comment suggesting that I'm the baby's mother? She confuses me. Some mornings when I stop by (I try to be at Nunzi's house by 7:30 every morning) she is busy with the other children and she happily hands him over to me with a bowl of gruel. But just as often when I arrive, Pasquale is still asleep and I've got to just sit there and wait until Nunzi says it's time to get him up. "Ma perche?" -- but why? I asked her this the other day. She said there is too much confusion in the mornings, with breakfast and everyone getting ready for the day. How ridiculous! I was tempted to say, "Well, if there is so much confusion at your house, Nunzi, why don't you loan the baby to me for the morning!" made me agree that I would give the baby up after two months. In the end, she gave me two weeks more. I lived up to my end of the bargain but my heart is still shrivelled.

For 65 days I lived with Adelina. Helped out on the farm, feeding cows and chickens. Baked bread. Washed so many, many diapers, between those of Pia and those of my son. Thankfully I wore a large wrap around my shoulder and chest so that at every moment, I could hold Pasquale folded against my chest.

Those days were the happiest of my life. My heart exploded with love every morning when I opened my eyes to see my baby's dark eyes, his silky olive skin. And then came the day that Nunzi arrived.

March 17th. I was outdoors, sitting on the wall near the well. The spring air was everywhere. Birds making sweet noises. I held Pasquale on my lap, he was facing me, and I tickled his thick belly. Caressing his chins, I laughed and talked to him until he chuckled back at me. Oh did his eyes shine.

It was a sunny morning that day, but still quite cool. And then I heard the dreaded sound. The wheels of the cart, squeaking with rust. I looked up to see Nunzi approaching. She wore a black scarf over her reddish hair and I thought, yes, you have dressed appropriately: for mourning.

"Come sta Filo?" she asked as she pulled the donkey to a halt.

I nodded my head. I considered telling her the truth: terribile! But instead, I just kept nodding and talking to Pasquale, who I had taken to calling Froggy. Ranocchio. "Bongiorno Nunzi," I said, finally forcing myself to look at her with a big fake smile.

I had been over this moment so many many times in my head and now the deadly hour had come.

I scooped up the baby and held him to my shoulder. "I will be only a few minutes packing my things," I said, patting the baby's back.

"Would you like to hold him while I get ready?"

My eyes blurred with tears as I turned to the house. Adelina and Pia greeted me at the door. Adelina saw my tears and caught me by the elbow. "My poor friend!" she whispered. "This isn't fair."

I rushed by her into the house, went straight to my tiny bed in the corner of the living room. I piled Pasquale's things and slipped them into a satchel along with my own few pieces of clothing. I saw Gemella look at me with curious eyes. And then she started purring. Adelina had offered her to me but I had declined, over and over. Now I decided to catch her up in my arms and hold her tight.

I stood at the door, watching Adelina and Nunzi outdoors; they were holding up Pia and Pasquale side by side. Even though he is younger by two weeks, my son is longer and fuller than Pia. No wonder, considering his father is more than six feet tall.

All of a sudden, blood rushed to my face as I thought of Giovanni. I wondered if Vanni ever thinks of me. I wondered if he is ever even a bit curious about his son. Does he even know I had a boy? Closing my eyes I could see his face, and then just as quickly I erased him from my mind. What kind of man abandons the woman he says he loves more than all the stars above?

Quickly, I stepped out into the March sunlight, holding my breath. Nunzi praised me for bringing such a beautiful boy into the world. "He is growing so well." Then she asked if I would rather drive the cart, or hold Pasquale for the trip. My heart started slamming. "I am his mother no matter what happens," I say. "So I will hold him today and any other day I have that chance."

The ride down to Paola took two hours; I wanted to stretch it on forever. Nunzi took us back to her place. The air was cool, but my face was sweating. Pasquale could tell I was nervous, he started to fuss.

"I must feed him," I said to Nunzi, "to calm him down."

Nunzi frowned. "But Filo this must be the very last time," she said. "Carmela has been very patient, but we should not take advantage of her."

"Oh fooey on her," I mumbled, but some other more colorful words came to mind.

Nunzi's eyebrows flew up like two black crows, the way they do when she is irritated. "I have found one of the kindest ladies in all of Italy to care for your little one," she said.

"I know I know, you said so before, more than once!"

"So be grateful Filo. We've managed to keep him out of the foundling home. I have heard just this week of another infant dying there."

I thought maybe she was trying to scare me, and that got me angry, but I was determined not to give into my tears today. As soon as I switched Pasquale to the other breast, I started to say my Hail Mary's and I said them over and over and over again as Nunzi reached for Pasquale.

"All will be well," Nunzi whispered, and I pulled out the rosary that Adelina had given me and I said the rosary, sitting there, crying, barely able to pray as she took him away forever.

That was four months ago, and soon after I gave up the baby, I resurrected my nonna's crochet hook and her cotton thread. It soothed me to sit and wind the thread into fantastic patterns; like nonna, I found I could design the patterns as I worked. After all, I had watched her do it for so many many years.

I kept Gemella close by and at moments when I thought I was going to die for missing my little one, I picked up the white kitten and wrapped her in my arms, and set my face into the fur between her ears. Ah, but that comforted me.

And now that summer has come, I've taken to the town square to work. That old man, Baffo, sips a glass of red wine at the next table. By the middle of the afternoon he is barely able to keep his head up.

And me, I sip a cup of acqua con gas, and a cafe now and then. When I look at the lace this morning, I reaize that it is taking a new shape: I am crocheting something in the shape of a V. And then I realize, this would be beautiful placed against a woman's chest, for a blouse or a fancy nightgown. I smile, wondering how many lira this will fetch.

An hour passes. Baffo is face down on the next table so when I hear the voice at first I am uncertain who is talking to me.

"Filo are you so busy you can't take a moment to speak?"

The crochet hook comes to rest between my fingers. My eyes linger on the lace. Slowly I turn my face to see. Him. My heart comes slamming up my throat. I feel tears gather behind my eyes. I refuse to turn toward him.

"Why...why have you come?" My voice has thorns.

A short laugh. "What, I'm not allowed to visit Paola? I have business here today."

My anger boils over. I turn to him. His jaw is clean shaven, and his blue eyes dance. His blonde curls are thick, but today I want to spit on him. "Like hell you have business here! No, Vanni, I think instead you are the scum of the earth, the cruelest man alive. Now that I've delivered your son, now that I am deep in suffering over my baby, you have come to see me? Bruta!" My anger dissolves in tears. My fingers trembling, I wrap my lace and needle into my satchel and scoop up Gamella. "You my friend can go straight to hell where you belong."

He tried to follow me. I turned. "Don't you dare take another step! I will yell "rape" as loud as I can and someone is sure to arrest you and throw you in jail." He laughs and that just enrages me further. If I had a rock in my hand now I would slam it against his head.

Instead, I just leave him in the square. As I do the bells of St. Frances chime. I'm headed home when instead I decide to go to Nunzi's to tell her of my lace in the shape of a perfect V. And then I see another new shape: I will crochet a short jacket with a plunging neckline and cap sleeves. Something for a bride or a new mother! I lift my head higher and hurry on.

Only God Knows

This place is completely unsuitable, it is after all a barn, full of -- hay, dirt, and, hiding in the hay, snakes and mice and only God knows what else. I can't stay here, I know that, but for now, this is where I must hide, Nunzi says so. For now, I am nursing Pia, a baby with a shock of blonde curly hair, where she got it from, only God knows. She is sucking hard on my tender nipples, swallowing me up is how it feels, but she is after all more than two weeks old.

And my precious infant, only in his second day on earth, he is nursing on Adelina's breasts, on his way to Paola with Adelina and Nunzi in the donkey cart. Oh how my heart aches for him, the baby face burned into my mind.

This is Nunzi's plan: she will go back to Paola to register my son as hers, with Adelina being the wet nurse, or "la balia." All this to satify the "uffici comunali," the officials of our town. Oh how I have grown to hate them, the city bigshots, almost as much as Crudele, the evil priest. They are not one ounce good people, they are in cahoots with the church and their only intention is to keep my son from me.

If Nunzi were here, her olive eyes would grow wide, and she would quiet me, she would return me to gratitude, "Hush, Filo," she would say. "Just be thankful you can nurse your son for a few months!" Yes, it's true, I am grateful for Nunzi, for all she's doing and has done and will do! Otherwise, my flesh and blood, my precious baby would be gone from me forever into some repugnant foundling home!

So before the day is through, the two of them -- Nunzi and Adelina -- will return, and I will start nursing my son, his name unknown to me as yet! (Why do the uffici get to name him? How come? Some day if I have my way things will change!)

I hear the rusty squeal of the barn door sliding and as it opens a heavy shaft of sunlight falls on me in the hay. Little Rico pokes his head inside. I must say, he makes me smile. I'll be delighted if my little boy turns out so sweet as this child with the wild hair.

"May I sit with you a while?" Rico asks, very quietly, and I pat the straw next to me. It is as though I have made my own nest here. Thanks be to God that we are experiencing warm dry weather, and Nunzi and Adelina left me with plenty of blankets.

Rico sits, cross-legged, his bouncy curls covering one eye. "How long are you going to live with us?" he asks.

"Oh, I don't know that," I say. And I think again, only God knows how things will go. Nunzi's plan is that I stay here with Adelina for maybe three months. "But we'll see," she says.

And then, when my time here is up, I will return to Paola, and my baby will live...with Nunzi.

I shake my head now, trying to rid myself of any future thoughts, I would rather not think ahead to something I dread with every cell of my being.

Suddenly I hear a squeal and I look down, but Pia is fast asleep her lips open, dangling over my breast. The squeal it turns out is from a huge white cat, whose green eyes meet mine when I look up! "Mamma mia what a beautiful cat that is!" I say, and Rico gets up and scoops the cat up by her middle, which is thick and bulging.

"Her name is Angela," Rico says, petting her head. She purrs with satisfaction, and I think to myself, what a nice thing this cat is.

"I have never seen such a pretty cat," I say.

"Yes, and maybe you will want one of her kittens. Her name is "Bianca," and my mommy says she acts like "una principessa!" He looks at me with a knowing smile as if he can't imagine that I would say no to the offer of a kitten.

"Oh well, perhaps," I say, and then I think, what will she eat? When only God knows how I will make money for my own meals, how can I take on a cat?

At that moment Rico's papa sticks his head in the barn. Bruno is a nice fellow, short and very strong. I have exchanged only a few words with him since I've been here.

"Rico ragazzo, what are you doing playing with that cat when you have chores mio figlio???"

"Oh I'm sorry Bruno he asked if he could keep me company?!!" I set Pia on one of the blankets and get to my feet. Rico meanwhile, lets go of the cat. Bianca heads directly to where Pia lies.

"SCAT!!!" I yell, reaching down to push away the cat. I scoop up the infant, who is now awake. "Stay away from this precious girl!"

Rico heads out of the barn, and I decide I am not going to hide here in the barn any longer. I follow the boy and his father into the barnyard. It's such a beautiful warm winter day, it's a sin to stay inside.

I carry Pia around the barnyard pointing out the animals: "Guarda qui c'e l'antico asino!" The ancient donkey. "E guarda qui il grande maialino, che alata is suoi numerosi bambini!" And look here the big piggym nursing her many babies!" I set Pia against my shoulder and patted her back, and then a burp and then a splash of warm milk all over my back.

"Ah Pia, e un bene che stasera non vado a un ballo elegante, profuma di latte materno!!!" Ah Pia, it's good I'm not going to a fancy dance tonight, smelling like mother's milk!"

I give the baby a squeeze and in that moment, the idea that I will soon be nursing my own baby carries ne into the clouds!

ORZO turns ORZA: a brand new Organization of Respectful Loving Aunties

So maybe all that darkness of those preceding chapters never happened at all! Maybe instead of the pain and agony of having to give her baby away, maybe Filomena instead is immersed in immeasurable love, because she is able to remain, for all intents and purposes, Pasquale's mother! Thanks to a little-known organization called

ORZA:

in Italiano

Organizzazione di Rispettose Zie Amorevoli

or in English, the ORGANIZATION OF RESPECTFUL LOVING AUNTIES.

an organization founded by Filomena herself, with the help of her lifelong friend, Annunziata (Nunzi) Sesta. And several others, including the midwife, Clementina Rizolli, and Adelina Trieste and the rest of the women who don't need names as yet.

Consider this, this scene that follows, to be the true telling, hollowing out all darkness, because this is really how it happened:

Filomena is standing here beside a weathered grey fence, in the milky sunlight of a clear November day. Filomena is holding a basket in one hand, and bracing the other hand beneath her bulging belly, cradling herself. She is curtained in a lime green dress that is shaped like a tent, a dress she made herself.

Soon. That's what Clementina, the midwife, said after she examined Filomena two afternoons ago. Filomena was lying on the kitchen table, her lower half bare, the table hardly big enough for her expanded body, her bare feet braced on each edge of the table.

"My dear girl, your baby's head is low, oh so low, and lined up and ready to go!" Clementina, leaning over to face Filomena, whispered to her. "Your baby is coming soon. Maybe this week!"

That's all Nunzi had to hear! Nunzi who was right there in the kitchen, naturally, as she has been right at Filomena's side all along. Without Nunzi, how would Filomena possibly manage?

No matter.

"Let's get you packed," Nunzi said, helping Filomena off the table.

It took them no time at all to pack, as Filomena has only the green dress and a brown skirt and one other that is the dark blue color of the ocean. And a yellow blouse, ironically, that's almost exactly the shape of a priest's surplice.

Full and blousy. Every time the priest passed her in the street, Filomena, wearing the yellow blouse, would bow her head. Father Crudele would stop and stare at her as she walked by, that evil wrinkle in his brow. Filo would hurry along, keeping her head low and her walk steady.

Nunzi and Filo left Paola about 1:00, and rode in the cart led by the bony brown mare. In an hour and a half they were at the farm owned by the lifelong friend of Nunzi's cousin, Giovanna Trieste. Giovanna who has seven children, including a brand new one, a sweet little peanut of an infant girl, named Pia, who is barely two weeks old.

Now, Filomena is standing by the fence. Nunzi, who Clementina has taught the art of midwifery, is inside drinking her espresso with Adelina, whose baby is making slurping noises at her breast. Filomena was inside too, until Adelina sent her outside after she tried unsuccessfully to nap.

Filo slowly approaches the chicken coop to collect the eggs. But she stops here, and is staring into the pen: in one muddy corner is a gigantic sow, lying on her side. A litter of seven pink and muddy piggies are nursing, making noises not unlike those of baby Pia. Filomena smiles, and without thinking, she lifts her hand to her oversized breasts, which have swelled into ripe melons.

On the other side of the pen stand two ancient donkeys and a cow.

Now Adelina's second youngest child, a curly-headed boy they call Rico, joins Filomena.

Dozens of chickens strut through the yard beside the fence.

Filomena lays her hand on Rico's head. "Do you want to show me how to collect the eggs sweetheart?" ("Vuoi mostrarmi come raccogliere le uova, tesoro?")

As the little boy takes her hand and leads her into the chicken coop, Filomena considers the word "uova," eggs, how it feels in her lips to say it. But then the smell of chicken shit takes Filo's attention, giving her stomach a twist.

She has to bend over slightly to get inside the coop. Her stomach presses tightly against her chest.

Rico already has his hand in the stiff straw, pulling out an egg and laying it gently in Filo's basket. Filo does the same. They take turns. The warm eggs feel good in her hand. They move along, transferring eggs into the basket.

"Are there always this many?" Filo asks the boy. He smiles. Two teeth are missing up top.

"Yes, sometimes even more," he says. "We can stop now because the basket is over half full. May I carry it?" She smiles and hands it over.

He pulls open the door of the coop and hurries back to the house. Filo, meanwhile, is walking slowly, and noticing suddenly that her belly is tightening. Not like times before, when the pull was gentle.

But this time it's a dagger slicing across her insides. She catches her breath at the squeeze of pain -- una stretta di dolore. It feels like someone is tightening a burning rope across her gut. She holds her hand beneath her swollen womb, she feels a foot, a heel or an elbow poking into her tented dress.

The next pain takes her breath completely, she tries to massage her belly, she shoves her hand into the fiercely tight wall of agony and she cries out. Now the rope is steel on fire, burning rope, just getting tighter and tighter.

Filo stops, and takes another breath. The pain is tighter still. "Oh my," she thinks, "I must tell..." Before she can say "Nunzi" the pain once again pulls her so tight she can't walk. She wonders: will I be able to get back to the house? She takes a tiny step and leans onto the fence. Holds on with both hands. Her breath is shallow. The pain isn't going away.

"NUNZI!" she cries. But will her voice carry inside? Filo is starting to panic, she cannot bear the scizzor, it feels like nothing she has experienced before, like a hot slice going back and forth, she is being torn below her belly. She cries out again for Nunzi but her voice is weaker.

She decides. "I must...get...back...to..." She lets go of the fence and takes a step, wobbling. But then her body decides. She collapses into the soft grass. On both hands, then her side, fetal position with her fetus. She cries: "Nunzi, Nunzi, Nunzi..."

She lies there, thinking she might die, all alone out here, where is Nunzi, why is she...and then the pain subsides. Filo inhales slowly. She pushes up to her hands and knees and now she is crying, "Someone please, dear Mary, please help me up!" She stays that way, on hands and knees, and then lifts herself so she is kneeling. She clasps her hands in prayer and says the Hail Mary three times.

Slowly, she stands. And takes a step. And another. She is four or five steps from the door, so close, I've got to make it I can I can I can, and she is at the door.

But before she can open it, the hot knife is back, slicing again and when she is collapsing this time, she hits the door with a thump.

With her last bit of energy, she raises her voice to scream "HELLLLLLLP ME PLEASE HELP ME HELP ME PLEASE!" (Aituami, per fravore, aiutami, aiutami, per favore!"

The door opens, and Filo falls, half inside and half outside. Nunzi and Adelina each lift a shoulder, and pull her across the floor, where Filomena is in more pain than she ever knew possible, and now her legs spread, water tinged with blood is oozing from her.

And in no more time than it takes for Adelina to boil a kettle of water, Filo, still in the same place on the floor, her face wet and writhing in pain, her legs spread. Nunzi is kneeling, and reaching and catching the dark hairy head, and soon one red shoulder, and then the other, and finally the whole skinny body is wiggling and slipping onto the green tent of a dress that looks like grass to greet Filo's baby.

Amantea Coming Clear

Finally, sun. Finally the rain is done, at least for today! And finally, I know what day it is. Monday, January 10, 1870. I can breathe again.

I remained at Nunzi's for two days and three nights. After my freezing midnight parade through Paola with my bedsheet, I took ill. I had fever and chills, so badly that Nunzi put me to bed in her son Vicenzo's bed. She kept washing me down in cool water, and then bundling me back up in blankets.

It's all a blur in my mind. It was the kind of illness that empties you clean, and makes you think and feel new again. I guess because you feel yourself dead and gone, when you wake up feeling alive again you are grateful to God just to be.

Once I could sit up, Nunzi fed me whatever she was making for her family. Bread with olive oil. Beans and pasta. And last night, a treat. Anchovies. And an orange.

This morning, I told her I wanted to go home. She agreed it was time.

"But I'm going with you."

"Nunzi, that's not necessary."

"Yes it is Fi because you are wearing my clothes!" She smiled at me. "It's good to see you back among the living."

Her saying that brought back the scissor of pain. I hugged my arms over my chest. My breasts were flat. But that doesn't mean I have forgotten my little squash. My head bowed. I felt tears arise once more. I wiped one arm across my eyes.

"Stop, Filo!" Nunzi took hold of my shoulders and shook my arms up and down. "You can't drop back into the darkness again. I won't allow it."

I looked up at her. I whimpered. "But what is it that will keep me going, knowing that I will never see him again...."

Nunzi reached over and covered one hand over my mouth. I could smell garlic, onions.

"OK, now hear me out," Nunzi said. She pulled a shawl around her shoulders and handed me one. "Come with me." She led me outside. The sun was so bright I had to cover my eyes. "Sit!" she commanded.

We sat down on the wooden bench beside her heavy door. Nunzi wasted no time. She took hold of my chin and looked deep into my eyes.

"No more of this weeping and feeling sorry for yourself, do you hear me? There is nothing in that pity for you Filo, nothing! As I was trying to tell you the other night, we really might have hope now!" She let go of my chin.

In that moment, a ray of light fell across Nunzi's shoulder and landed on me. "See," she said, "we need to stay in the light!" I reached over and hugged her.

"Thank you for taking such good care of me," I said. "And thank you for taking care of my little boy."

We sat together for a few minutes. "So we need to talk about the woman in Amantea," Nunzi said. "She is waiting to hear from me, or should I say, you."

I took in a long breath, and then let it out. I could feel myself getting nervous again, thinking about the baby. I miss him, as if he were one of my arms, one that I lost so very suddenly. "What...what do I have to do?"

"It's simple," Nunzi replied. "All you have to do is say yes. And then we go and retrieve your...the baby and bring him to her."

"But I don't understand," I say. "Aren't the town officials going to have something to say about this?"

"As far as they are concerned, Filo, the baby is with me. He is my responsibility."

"With you, Nunzi, but not with you, I don't under..."

"Shhhh," Nunzi said, covering my hand with hers. "You see, Filo, because I was the one who brought the baby in, my name is registered. But of course, I couldn't nurse him, so I told the official, whose named is Stefano, that I would be bringing the baby to a woman to be nursed. Which I did. On that journey that took me and Matteo nearly three hours."

"And now?"

"And now we will take him to Amantea. The town officials won't know. And Lauretta -- in Amantea -- she is so much closer to us."

"Yes, but what does that mean for me? When will I see him? How often?"

Nunzi sighed. "Filo, this is something we will have to work out. I cannot promise that you will see him as much as you would like."

I started to sniffle.

"Don't start that, Filo! No crying, do you hear me? I have done nothing these past few weeks except attend to you and your baby. My own family I am ignoring so much that Matteo is complaining. Please understand that what I am doing is violating the law, on your behalf! I am crossing not only the town officials but also that dreadful priest, Father Crudele."

Nunzi made the sign of the cross. "Filo, I am so so sorry for your loss. You know I am. But my sweet sister, because you are like a sister to me, you have to be strong and brave. You have to find the courage to accept this situation as it is, Filo. You must!"

I began fussing with the tassels on my shawl. This was all so much to take in. I grasped my hands together as if I was going to pray. But thinking of that devil, Crudele, I felt no urge to say the words of any prayer at all.

Little did I know that Nunzi had more shocking news in store for me.

We sat in silence for a bit longer. When Nunzi next spoke, she lowered her voice a little. "I don't know if you are ready for this Filo, but I know now what your baby's name is."

My hand flew to my chest. I held my breath. Waiting. "Oh Mother Mary, what name is my beloved son going to have?"

Nunzi waited, watching me. Finally she spoke. "Are you sure you are prepared to hear their name for him?"

I shook my head up and down. In reality I wasn't ready, but I knew I would never ever be.

"His first name is Pasquale."

I exhaled. "Oh that makes me so happy," I said, feeling tears bubble up. "He is named for Easter, the Pasqua! The spring holiday. Such a blessing, the resurrection!"

Nunzi cleared her throat. "Yes, it's a lovely first name," she said. "Very hopeful." She cleared her throat again. "But...

"But what?"

"But they gave him a surname as well."

"Yes, I guess they said that would happen. And what is it?" I was excited, because I loved his first name so much.

"I hate to tell you this Filo," she said. She set her hands over her eyes and forehead. "They are calling him, Pasquale....Pasquale Orzo."

My mouth dropped open. At first I was thinking I had heard wrong. "Madonna mia, how could they..." I shook my head back and forth. "How could they name him after a...pasta....a macaroni...and such a SMALL ONE at that!?"

Suddenly I felt a flood of anger. "How dare they!" I fumed. "Such an insult, such a humiliation! And I have such a beautiful last name, Scrivano, I am furious..." I stood up, suddenly I could imagine myself going to the municipal office and screaming at them, "He is a Scrivano, don't you know, a proud name, a proud history, we come from a lineage of scribes!"

Nunzi rose with me. She circled her arms around me. "Oh my dear Filo I know," she said. "It's heartbreaking. They are making a fool of him for life with that name. I saw with my own two eyes the secretary to Stefano...Maria is her name, I saw her laughing, that beast, as she wrote down the name on his birth certificate..."

Her words hit my heart like the sharpest darts. I could actually see that scrawny old woman laughing. I could feel the laughter seep inside my chest. I pushed Nunzi's arms away. "I think I may go to the town office and have it out with them." I could feel my fury ignite me like nothing ever had before. "How dare they insult my son, and me, and his father too. If they only knew who his father is..."

"No, no, no, Filo, please calm down," Nunzi said, laying a hand on my arm. "Please. Don't you dare think about going there! Don't you understand that officially, you are never supposed to have a moment's contact with your son again? Don't you see? We have to be very, very careful about all this, what we do..."

I made fists with both my hands. Of course Nunzi was right. But something in me was coming alive. "Somehow, some day, I promise you, as God is my witness, I will restore dignity to my son."

"We will pray for that Fi," Nunzi said. "But now we have something urgent to do. Please let's not dally any longer. We must hurry to get the baby and bring him up to Amantea today!"

Transported by Light

All I know is that somehow I have to lift myself from this bed. If I don't, someone, Nunzi no doubt, will come in a few days and find me. Dead.

But how do I move? I bow my head to one side and suddenly, I start to whisper. Very slowly, I say a Hail Mary. I picture the Virgin Mary.

I smile. It has been so many months since I allowed myself to pray. It scares me to think back to what the priest kept saying to me on that terrifying night he came to my parent's house so many months ago.

"You no longer are permitted to pray, do you hear me Filomena? You are unworthy of prayer. So don't you dare say a Hail Mary, or the Lord's prayer. Don't ask for forgiveness. Don't ask for mercy or help. You are filthy in the eyes of the church. Do you hear me? You don't deserve to speak to the Virgin. Or our heavenly Father."

Now I say another Hail Mary. Out loud. And another one. This time I shout it out, and even though my throat still hurts from when I was screaming at Nunzi, I feel better.

As if in reply, the lightning once again fills up the window. The thunder is rumbling, but further away, tossing smaller boulders from the sky.

I smell myself and that is enough. I sit up. I hold my breath against the foul odor. I gaze at the door of my "little den." Suddenly I recall the day when JS found it for me so many months ago. He led me here, he had me close my eyes, cover them with both hands, and then he unlocked the door and brought me inside.

One room, half of it for a bed, and the other half for a woodstove. The ceilings so low that he -- being close to six feet tall -- had to bend over slightly.

I remember he smiled and said, "Filo, now you can be a fox in your own little den." ("Ora puoi essere una volpe nella tua piccola tana!"

I cannnot think back without tears bubbling up again, so I put him out of my mind. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and I take hold of the bottom sheet with both my hands. And then I pull myself up along with the sheet. I sway a little, feel light-headed. I steady myself at the table, and spying a piece of panettone that Giulia left me so many days ago, I scarf it down, stale as it is.

Then I wrap myself in the soiled sheet and I head to the door and outside I am standing in the rain. Good thing it isn't too cold because I am barefoot. I lift my face and the rain drenches me. Soon my hair is soaked through.

Another crack of thunder, and I hurry through the village. I pass through the Arch of Saint Francis of Paola and weave my way toward the water. Why I am going there I wonder. All I know is that the rain is soaking through the sheet and into my nightgown and it is waking me up, making me feel alive for the first time since...

No no, I shake my head, I will make myself forget. I will myself to let go let go let go...

Before I know it, I am at the water's edge. I hear waves sloshing and crashing, I can make out the white froth crawling up the pebbled shore. The rocks hurt my feet, so I stop.

I let the ocean wash over my feet, I step in further, the water covers my calves. I sit down. I do, I sit down in the cold water, I force myself to sit there, I stare out into the blackness that is night and then I see that the lightning has moved way off shore, and the thunder is no more.

I breathe in the salty air. How many times I came here when I was pregnant.

NO, I shake my head, I won't think about that, not now.

I force myself to slip deeper into the water. Now the ocean is up to my swollen breasts, they ache so much, they have leaked for so long. My body is cold, my hands and feet are turning numb, I lean back, and let the water come up and wash me and my sheet and now my hair adn into my .

If I lie here long enough, I will see the sunrise.

Suddenly, I feel so hungry, so empty, my stomach gurgles.

That's when I hear footsteps approaching, shoes crushing into the beach stones. Who could be here at this time of night? Frightened, I sit up. I cover my head with the sheet. It's foolish but it makes me feel safe.

The footsteps stop. I wait. For a moment I think, he's come back after all. He couldn't stay away forever. And he knew exactly where to find me.

"Filo I know that's you." The voice is tired. The voice is more familiar to me than my own.

Slowly, I lift the sheet off my head. I turn. Standing there is Nunzi, holding a small flaming torch. I see her face, the dark eyes, the thick eyebrows.

I whisper. "How did you know to find me here?"

"Oh Filo, for heaven's sake, when you weren't in bed, I knew there was only one other place you could be. Just look at you now, drenched to the bone. Please, come home with me. Both of us need some sleep."

I stand and sheets of water fall from me. I take the sheet off my shoulders and try to wring out the water. Hopeless. I drag it behind me as I follow Nunzi off the beach.

By the time we reach her place, I am exhausted. I leave the sheet outside and follow her inside. Her husband has kept the fire going. I stand there while Nunzi undresses me. Then she wraps me in a clean sheet and covers my head in a towel. She settles me in a low chair by the fire. She brings a blanket and covers me up.

"I...I would love something to eat," I say. "I am famished."

She goes to the woodstove where there is a kettle. She scoops something into a large cup and brings it to me with a spoon. Then she brings me a thick piece of her homemade bread.

Soon I am devouring the most delicious minestra I've ever eaten.

And when I've finished, she brings me a second cup. And more bread. And a slice of cheese.

After eating, she doesn't need to instruct me. I lie back, and sleep comes more easily than ever before.

Because of Nunzi's Prayers, a Miracle

A snake of lightning scissors to the ground! It splits into fingers. The crack of thunder floods my chest.

Every time Nunzi visits me, she tells me to get out of bed, "For God's sake, Fi. Do something!" she screams. "Cook, sew, mend, wipe the floor!"

I went back to bed the day after my baby was torn away from me six weeks ago. I had him with me for just over two months, until January 6th, which just happened to be the Epiphany.

Pasquale and I were staying with Lina and her family, and I will be forever grateful for that precious time. For those weeks, I felt like I was living in a nest, protected and filled with unspeakable love. Lina lined the hayloft with warm blankets and the baby and I slept there. I nursed him whenever he whimpered. I cradled him against my heart, especially when he woke in the middle of the night.

This time with my baby was a gift from God, but then, when it was over, and Nunzi said it was time for me to go back to Paola, and leave Pasquale behind with Lina, I was of a completely different mind! It felt like I had descended into some special kind of hell. The morning that Lina came to the barn, in Nunzi's company, and Nunzi said to me in a low voice, "OK Filomena my dear friend, it is time," I felt like someone was taking a knife to me. I was about to be carved -- my heart was being sliced out of my chest, leaving a gaping chasm!

It took both Lina and Nunzi to pry the baby from my arms. I screamed when they finally wrenched him free from the last grasp of my fingers. Lina swept the baby out of the barn and I tried to follow; Nunzi was attempting to steer me toward the cart, but I collapsed into the hay and stayed there on my knees wailing at the top of my lungs. I thought the pain of it would rip me apart. What was left of me without my beloved child? How could I possibly live, minus my beating heart? I cradled my arms around my chest, and lay curled in a fetal position until I fell asleep.

When I woke, Nunzi was there, waiting, keeping me company. I knew we had to leave, but I didn't think I had the strength to stand.

"I will help you Fi," she said finally, and that set me crying again. I sat up and held my wet face in my hands and rocked back and forth saying "voglio mio bambino," over and over again.

Finally Nunzi stood, and grabbed me under one arm and pulled me up. She cradled her arm around my drooping shoulders and moved me slowly outdoors to where the cart waited. As the donkey set off on our way back to Paola, Nunzi set one hand on my back and started to make circles, but I pushed her hand away. I did not want to be consoled, not by her and not in this way.

It was a fiercely windy day, and we were wrapped in scarves and shawls pulled tight to our shoulders and heads. By the time we arrived at my house, three hours later, I was cold, exhausted and numb.

"Fi," Nunzi whispered, "do you want me to come inside?" I stared into my lap. I remained silent. I didn't care what she did. I didn't care what happened to me. Already my breasts were burning, hot and so hard, filled with milk with no infant to feed. After waiting for a reponse for a few minutes, she came around and helped me down from the cart and pushed me toward the house, where Mama was waiting. "Oh Fi," Mama said taking me into her arms. "My poor girl. Thank you Nunzi, for everything." That was six weeks ago. It is now February 17th. I just keep counting and counting. I count the days since he was born on November 3rd. He is 106 days old today. I count the days since I last saw him: 43. I get up every two or three days and I wash myself. I eat whenever Mama brings me a plate.

Every time Nunzi comes to visit, it is the same thing. I lie in bed, punching my pillow and screaming at her over and over again, "I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU!"

She stands there staring at the floor. She waits patiently until I stop screaming, and then she says it -- the same thing to me, over and over again.

"Filo, be glad that your baby isn't in that abysmal ospizio in Cosenza, where he wouldn't last a year. Yes, he would die just like so many other infants! Please please listen to me, Fi. Please realize how fortunate you are. And please forgive me, but I am trying to help you!"

I sob. I whisper. "But what kind of life is this? Huh Nunzi? What am left with? Nothing, nothing. NIENTE! I have no reason to live anymore. I am done for."

Then Nunzi sits down next to me on the bed, and if I let her, she feeds me soup or pastina. When she leaves, Mama takes over nursing me. Every chance I get, I go back to bed, and sink low under my coverlet.

For weeks this has been going on. I never get up to eat. Why should I? Mama cooks me an egg every few days. Other days she brings me a small block of cheese, some dried anchovies.

"Oh please Fi," she begs, "you are getting so thin. Please for my sake please. Mangia!"

Yesterday morning, she made panettone, which I adore. She brought me a thick slice, while it was still warm. She had slathered it in butter. She sat on the bed beside me while I chewed. Slowly. Slowly, I swallowed. And drank the warm coffee she had prepared.

"Now doesn't that taste good?" Mama asked, her eyes shining brightly.

I managed a smile. I nodded my head. I gazed at my dear mother. I reached out to touch her face. She took my hand in both of hers. And pressed my hands to her face. That's when I collapsed again in tears. I thought about the baby and started crying so hard, I began choking, and soon I felt the panettone might come up my throat.

"Oh Fi, I am so so afraid for you," Mama said, after I had stopped choking. I fear that you will take ill if you don't come alive again. How can you possibly live if you don't eat?" I don't say it, but what I think is, 'If I'm fortunate I WILL get sick, and whatever it is, I pray that it may it kill me, put me quickly out of my misery!"

Now, tonight, Nunzi has let herself in. I am pretending to be asleep. I see that she is shrouded in a huge cape that goes all the way to the floor. The thunder and lightning crack and crack and the light floods my bed. Nunzi drapes her wet cloak on the kitchen chair and comes into the bedroom.

She doesn't speak. She drags a kitchen chair into the bedroom, places it next to my bed, turns it to face me and she sits. She brings her face up close to my head. I am turned toward the wall.

"Filo," she whispers. "Please wake up. This is a miracle I am about to share with you. Please wake up now and look at me."

I don't want to open my eyes. The lightning sails down again. The thunder cracks. I turn my head to face the grey wall. The thunder cracks again and again.

Nunzi rises. "For the sake of the Virgin Mary, and his son, dear Jesus, would you please sit up and listen to me Filo?" Her tone is sharp. She isn't pleading anymore.

I roll over.

"Sit up!" she commands.

I'm slow to do it. She grabs hold of my hand. "Sit up right now because I have the best news of your life!" She pulls me up. She sits down beside me on the bed.

"Fi, I never told you this because I was so afraid it wouldn't happen. But a long time ago, when you first got pregnant, I began praying to the Virgin. I prayed that if the Lord willed it, we would find a way that you might be close to your baby." She paused. "I've been praying all of these months, without stopping, Fi."

I studied her face. What was she telling me?

Nunzi continues. "When it was time for you to have the baby, I went to the priest. I told him that I would happily sponsor your child, and that I would be honest about raising him. He turned me away. I asked him again just before we went up to Lina's. He said he would never change his mind so I was never to ask him again." She smiles widely. "But now...I don't know how, or why but..."

My heart was racing. I was afraid to think... "What...what are you telling me Nunzi?" I whispered. I held my hands in prayer.

"So Filo, it turns out that somebody with a lot of influence, and plenty of money has come forward. And this individual has 'convinced' good old Crudele that it might be wise for Pasquale to grow up near his mother."

There is a moment when I am completely frozen. I know what she is telling me. But I cannot make my body believe it. I just sit there blinking, and shaking my head back and forth. "So why do I know this, Fi? My cousin Lisetta is very close to Agatha, you know, the old woman who launders the altar cloths and Father's surplices? Lisetta came to see me last night, and told me what she knew from Agatha, who overheard the priest talking. So this morning I was at the church. True to form, Crudele made we wait forever before he would see me. But finally I got my 'audience.' Lisetta was right Fi! My prayers were answered!"

She takes hold of my shoulders. I am weak, from hunger, but also because I am so astonished. "And so...he is...he's coming home?" We embrace. I begin sobbing "Oh Nunzi, dear Nunzi, you...worked this miracle. My son is...he is coming home!"

Suddenly I hear myself. And then I stand up and throw my arms to either side and I begin shrieking with the joy that is flooding me. I am shrieking so loud that my throat aches, I am shrieking so hard...that I wet myself. Mama rushes in. I clamp my hands over my mouth, crumpling.

Nunzi explains what has happened. Mama opens her arms wide, and I fall into them.

Now the thunder crashes and outside the window, lightning turns the sky white. And then there is another explosion of thunder right overhead. I know this is God throwing fireworks for me. For us.

"So of course you know he must always live with me, Fi, but that doesn't prevent you from visiting me every day!" "My dear Nunzi I will never be able to thank you enough." "Don't worry about thanking me. What you need to do now is feed yourself! Eat a good dinner, and get a good night's sleep. Because as soon as the sun rises tomorrow morning, we are on our, to fetch... our boy!" When she leaves, I stand at the door watching the sky go white with lightning. And then I sit down at the table and Mama lays out a parade of food. In no time at all she has fixed me chicken broth with pastina, escarole, anchovies and several slices of cheese. The food goes down slowly, but I manage to eat it all. And then I go into the bedroom, and kneel down, and pray to the Virgin, asking her to show me what I can do to repay her for this miracle. I fall into bed, and somehow I sleep until six am. When Nunzi arrives, I am dressed and ready. The painting, "Le Dernier Baiser," (The Last Kiss) is by Charles François Marchal, 1858.

Mallory Square on My Mind

By Dr. Mel Waldman

three

decades gone by



vanishing

in Time’s un-reality



like

wild stallions galloping across the invisible universe



into

a faraway galaxy an orphic vastness I cannot fathom



three

decades gone



since

I discovered Mallory Square where we celebrated

the

gorgeous sunset & I became a lover



of

the vanishing sun an opacarophile so long ago



&

still I crave each glorious moment again



evoked

by Claudia’s paintings

– inserted in The Noctuary



my

poem about a night journal of celestial light



ensconced

in darkness –



beatific

pictures



&

a sweet blessing



the

scent of a sensuous shell-shaped cake



my

Proustian madeleine taking me back to Mallory Square



Mallory Square

on my mind



coming

forth



&

rising

from my mystical maze



the

Jungian Unconscious



of

esoteric wisdom



Mallory Square

eerily



resurrected

embracing &



merging

with the fantastic



flow

of enigmatic paintings



of

majestic beauty



compelling

me to see



a

cornucopia of dazzling sunsets



divine

colors & heaven-bound hues



otherworldly

sunsets in metamorphosis



everchanging

& morphing



into

a glorious Gestalt



of

celestial grandeur



a

gorgeous gallimaufry of Nature’s miracles



sweeping

visions



of

magnificent illusion deliriously divine



flaming

reds & luscious mind-altering



oranges

yellows & crimson gold



&

hypnotic hallucinatory



purple & pink sunsets

glorious

gloaming ever-flowing & sensuously



blossoming

in

celestial efflorescence



as

a multitude of curious humans



gather

on the Mallory Square pier



there

by



the

Key West Harbor & the Gulf of Mexico



waiting

longingly to see an exotic sunset



celebration

a gorgeous



extravaganza

so long ago & now in my mind



where

strangers encounter vendors



artists

singers dancers magicians psychics



&

circus people & merge



with

the fluid sky a sweet phantasmagoria



&

the tropical sun & the seductive air

humans

craving the beyond seeking



otherworldly

transcendence & oneness



with

the universe finding magic



&

even peace in



the

unfathomable moment of



the

vanishing sun adorned



with

glorious colors & celestial grandeur



dying

in the night until



tomorrow’s rebirth

Dr. Mel Waldman is a psychologist, poet, writer, and artist. His stories have appeared in dozens of magazines including HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, ESPIONAGE, THE SAINT, and AUDIENCE. He is a past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in Psychoanalysis and was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in literature. He is the author of 11 books.