Rosa had died.
Everyone heard about it.
Over the fence details were shared.
For a moment there was silence
in that house.
The family gathered.
She looked so small, dead.
Like a child.
The sons gazed.
Anne her daughter, the only one,
wondered.
The screen door clapped
like Rosa’s voice,
but then was quiet.
Somehow, Sicily was dead.
The trees disappeared on its hills,
and on a hillside,
a little girl wandered.
Mama! She called.
Papa! She cried.
Her Sicilian dialect returned.
Where was everyone?
She was six years old.
She was Rosa Bova.
A big girl.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
Another child came up the path.
He looked familiar.
Where is Mama? she asked.
Where is Papa?
As if the boy would know.
He had such bright eyes.
Like stars, like lakes.
There were tears in them.
He sat down as she approached.
I am Peter! He said,
without being asked.
He seemed shy.
She nodded. She knew.
As if they had played together.
She was not afraid now.
I want my Mama and Papa, she said,
and Peter suddenly giggled.
They are coming, he said.
Rosa nodded, she trusted the boy.
Am I going to school? Rosa asked.
Peter nodded.
I’ve been there, he said.
It’s nice, all the kids
know how to play.
They have magic glasses
Glasses? said Rosa.
Peter waved his hand.
You put them on and see things, he said.
You can take things apart
and put them together
a different way, he said grinning.
It’s fun.
Will I see my children again, asked Rosa.
You will see everybody Rosa, said Peter.
They’re all there.
Rosa thought Peter was handsome.
Yes, said Peter.
And you grow up again,
this time perfect.
Rosa laughed,
then said seriously,
I want to go home, Peter.
The little boy smiled.
I will take you home, Rosa.
And a great burden left Rosa.
An old woman’s anguish disappeared.
Those around the bed exclaimed,
she looks like a little girl!
Smiling!