Coming
The sign that was once a brazen, polished silver has become crippled and devoured by fuzzy red rust. This, the sign that is one onto itself, will not ever, in any way, become playfully suspicious as it once was. It is now like a broken headstone of a forgotten martyr. And all that stands now is… something more than what was before… but nothing less…
The sticky smell from the repugnant fruit warns the villagers not to come near. But still, the poveri bambini strain and squeeze themselves through the rain-warped, sun-sucked iron gates, just to fill their shirts up with those bitter olives. Yet a far more bitter specimen lies just beyond the walls of the Gardens: Calogero Giovanni. The once stark white-stone house now looks as if a car with muddy tires skidded over the structure repeatedly. Giovanni is a scrawny old man who must weigh ninety pounds and is longer than a church steeple. He’s a hard-worker, too- arms are always wrapped up in yellowed-bandages and legs are webbed with black veins.
The espresso’s dark pigment intertwines with a single silvery wisp. The aroma encircles my head as the soft glow of the morning is born. Even though the sun sprays its rays, the Aspro Oliveto is in a fogging shadow. I stretch my neck to look over at the walls; the enormous gate with the deteriorating letters, spelling out “The Inquieto Gardens”. My eyes pull over to a…what is that? A pale grey orb bobs up and down, moving swiftly. I strain and crease my eyes. The orb jumps rapidly. Flailing ribbons shoot up and look like a flag caught in a strong wind. A throat clenching scream extracts itself from the peculiar organism. I creep out of my chair and slither down the stone steps. My feet sit heavily upon the ground as if I am glued to it by quicksand. Hurry up! You’re almost there! He needs help! There’s the wall, just call over it…
“Helloooo…”. Like the sound a biscotti makes when you break it off. Barely a muffle.
No answer. Just forget the whole thing, it probably was just one of those kids…probably. Mhhmm, I don’t know. For one thing, while the kids scoop up the olives, they sing old Christmas songs they have learned from Sacredote Ribisi, the only priest who welcomes the children. He even lets them bake the host for the masses. But I hear no singing today. Not even songs like “Caro Gesu Bambino” and “Lettera a Pinnochio” , which are usually sung in such an intense, deep rooted loneliness that their voices seem to sift through several melancholy layers. Now, a low, moaning silence seeps into my ears. Slowly, like the aging of wine, the moan grows to a tongue-numbing wail.
My feet spread the dust into little mounds as I scoot further. Keep going, keep going, I tell myself. My breath is rattling in my nose and stays there. I can see the sharp spike of the gate poke out like a blackened hand, creeping towards the olives trees that grow outside of the Gardens. WAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!
