Italian lady
Sunday, October 14th, 2007
Barbara is in her 60’s. We first met her when the grapes got ripe. She’s lived in Lausanne forever but 35 percent of our conversation is in Italian. (0% mine. 70% hers.) Wife has become her “best friend”. The door bell will ring and it’ll be Barbara asking for “la donna bella”. (I think that means “the boss”.) She and wife will chat. Barbara will magically produce a half pound of coffee (we now have enough for the next five years), then they’ll head out to the yard and pick figs, apples and grapes.
A year ago our paths crossed in front of the house. She, dressed in black. “My husband left me”, she said with a tear in her eye. In my absent-minded way, I asked her where he’d gone. “To ‘cielo’ and ‘la vita’ will never be the same.”
Barbara rang again this past Saturday, offering us a 15 pound pumpkin squash-type thing. She said her grandkids were coming over and they’d just use it as a soccer ball. Better that we should have it. She didn’t take any fruit, didn’t want a cup of coffee. Just wanted to give us something.
And although she smiles a bit more, life really is not the same without her “chéri”.
A year ago our paths crossed in front of the house. She, dressed in black. “My husband left me”, she said with a tear in her eye. In my absent-minded way, I asked her where he’d gone. “To ‘cielo’ and ‘la vita’ will never be the same.”
Barbara rang again this past Saturday, offering us a 15 pound pumpkin squash-type thing. She said her grandkids were coming over and they’d just use it as a soccer ball. Better that we should have it. She didn’t take any fruit, didn’t want a cup of coffee. Just wanted to give us something.
And although she smiles a bit more, life really is not the same without her “chéri”.
