Turning into our alley,
we pass the tiny courtyard
with the old, green, metal gate
next to our front staircase
where Esperanza hangs the day’s wash
and keeps the door to her kitchen open
to let in what breezes blow,
to let out the heat from the stove,
and to release whatever aromas rise
from preparing the midday meal.
Today
it smells of my childhood,
and all at once, I’m at Nonna’s.
The doors of the paneled elevator have opened
and I’m racing a sibling
straight down the quiet, carpeted hallway,
past dark, stained doors
with small brass peepholes
and hanging welcome wreaths
(dreary and dull
and not very welcoming),
toward the last door on the left.
I can smell it
prior to reaching it
and already know what treat lies ahead
before I hear her delighted squeal
and slippered feet
skittering from the kitchen
to answer the doorbell’s strange, loud warble.
Today
Esperanza has summoned a favorite –
chicken broth and pastina,
with heaping spoonfuls of grated Parmesan
which soon will be melting at the bottom of the bowl
and sticking to my spoon,
and making me happy beyond measure.
Especially when offered seconds
from the old, green-enameled saucepan,
worn and stained,
and ever filled with savory Italian delights
from Nonna’s tiny, talented hands.
The familiar aroma –
the familial aroma
makes the scorched day feel light
feel right
and makes Italy feel more like home.
Dog-eared Stories by anne celano frohna 