Author: Judith Lavezzi

Soon, I will celebrate one more year of living, and begin the anticipation of the next. It isn’t always an easy contemplation, the journey from here to there. I don’t usually indulge myself in birthday celebrations, as they are boringly and noticeably unimportant. I avoid all age related questions, so that I don’t have to be hearing “looking great for your age!”, or “any day above ground, is a good day,” or bowel talk. I don’t wish to share it, hear it, or encourage it, so I don’t discuss my age at all, in public, and threaten all my loved ones who think that my phobia is odd. It seems to me that everything is measured from one yardstick when contemplating age, and I want to conjure another one which has more detail in it, more depth, greater complexity.

Doctor M looked at his clipboard, swallowed and looked up to meet my eyes.  His lavender shirt was crisp and his business tie totally made the most of his blue eyes. He said, as neutrally as possible, “and it would help if you could lose some weight.”

My mamma had been raised with brothers. I’d heard her story many times throughout my life, and until now, I’d never paid much attention to it. It was only a story. My uncles were all thrilled with the possibility of adventure and action. They couldn’t stay home when war and the defense of Italy to them were so sacred. Only two of them ever returned home. Her precious Michaele, her most intelligent brother Giacomo, and her eldest, the laughing Franco; all gone forever. I was going to leave her, just like her brothers had done. And now I would take that same path, adding pain to her life. 

“I always know your heart, Gio, and I know that you are meant for someone, although, perhaps someone else, a woman wise and unmarried. She put her hands out toward mine, and her voice softened. “You know, there are many kinds of love in this world, and there are many people one can find happiness with. The life you dream of is not what your cousin Antonio has, even today. Real love comes much later, after two oxen are yoked together and learn how to pull together, to struggle through their days’ work helping each other.”

My footsteps left impressions in the ground. Looking back at those soft indentations, I felt a flush of pride, my mark. I was being foolish, because only a few moments passed before the impressions blurred under a drizzle that broke down the sharp outlines, the imprints created by toe and heel, as I strode toward her. Still, I felt oddly pleased at leaving this evidence of my presence, however fleeting, however dangerous. 

“You will not continue this,” she commanded, waving the spoon, a general in her territory, the glint in her eye, and the steel of her voice a warning of her own absolute authority. A few strands of dark curls escaped their blue and green head-wrap, exposing a few silver threads as well. The slight disarray underscored her intent; she obviously meant business.

The hero of the Risorgimento, the leader of the Thousand, General Giuseppi Garibaldi himself was huddled under blankets directly before me. He sat looking miserable, in a chair only three arms length in front of me. I heard him fussing over his caffè, and muttering to his lieutenants.

Living as a traditionally built woman in a town which houses shops that only sell clothes up to size 10 and where anorexia is the main problem of weight control has its drawbacks. Remaining on the outside of the main thoroughfare of one’s town is to always feel disconnected.

“When I was in jail,” Marilee said, as though it were no big deal, “I learned to wash my clothes and our dishes using chips of soap, wiping them with a sanitary pad, our very best dish-washing tool. It’s hard to take care of yourself and keep clean. You can’t just get new underwear, or even wash what you have whenever you like.” She added. ‘We each had assigned chores. Mine was the food cart twice a day.”