Mane' Atelier N°7 Erika Gualtieri

I am on my way to my grandmother's house in southern Calabria,
which I have inherited.
I haven't been there in a long time, too long...
Slowly, I walk up the path, laborious, the steep rocks.
Broom bushes line this path.
Mane, that was my grandmother's name, lived in a house on the cliffs by the sea.
I have now reached the garden.
The acacia trees are still standing here,
slightly crooked from the constant west wind.
I breathe in their scent deeply,
mixed with a light hint of hay,
from a nearby meadow.
It is late summer...
Slowly, the memories return.
Here we played as children,
on the meadow and here in the garden,
under the shade-giving acacia trees.
From afar, I hear children's laughter,
and the voices of women,
who regularly met here, young and old.

Now I stand before the heavy oak front door,
taking a few deep breaths,
before I open it...
And it is as it always was,
clean...
The polished tiles,
which provided coolness in summer,
the wallpaper on the walls, slightly faded,
in delicate colors.
Even the wooden furniture still exudes a faint hint of furniture polish.
I open the window shutters
and golden rays of sunlight penetrate the room,
along with the ever-present west wind.

I turn around,
my gaze goes to the fireplace,
a constant reminder of the cold winters,
in which the west wind seemed to seep through every crack.
Now this wind carries the scent of the acacias and the sea.
Then my gaze wanders to the leather couch,
and the memories wash over me.

Mane seems to be here with me in the room.
Mane, in her apron,
with her dark hair interwoven with delicate silver threads.
I let myself fall onto the couch, overcome by the depth of my feelings.
On this couch,
where I sat as a child,
and Mane blew on my knees,
when I had scraped them.
Mane, how she sang songs to comfort me.
Me, with my mouth full of small pieces of honeycomb,
from which she extracted the wonderful acacia honey.
As I got older, I still sat on this couch,
snuggled in Mane's arms,
telling of first love
and first heartbreak.
And Mane listened, comforted,
and kept my little secrets.
She laughed with me, dried my tears,
until the fire in the fireplace had long gone out,
with the smoke that always lingered a little in the room.

I get up and make a fire,
the evenings are already getting cool.
And I think of you,
Mane,
my beloved Nonnina,
you were the sweetest grandma in the world.

This scent simply makes you happy. It feels like coming home to people you love.
Even though I am writing here about a grandmother (I have left the name here) and her house, it is also incredibly sensual and erotic, with all the emotions it carries within.
Are these the secrets you keep inside, Mane?