I look at Rosa in the picture.
How the years weathered her skin
with the patina of age,
wifely duties,
plain as the hills of her forgotten Sicily.
Time left its palm print on her face.
A grandmother’s picture,
fault lines and furrows,
sorrow and wisdom.
The girl had disappeared,
the young mother picnicking
on the hill of a vanished village.
The woman in the picture is all I know.
Rosa, betrothed to Antonio,
a century ago.
The way of earth,
of children,
of dreams drifting in the attic.
In pictures,
remnants of a day when you spoke,
and put people at the table,
scolded Antonio,
gasped for breath and laughed,
and gave up trying to put life together.
It flew apart, Rosa.
Love exploded like a star,
death came in spring’s rain,
flowers came and went with summer,
and the girl from Sicily fell asleep.
I see it in the picture.
You were not perfect.
You groped your way.
You lost so much
in the years that flew away.
You were only a girl,
beautiful as Sicily.
Antonio’s love.
Adieu, adieu, adieu.