"Belaflora, it's dinner time! I made your favourite daisy and mushroom cake." Nonna Margherita called out. I heard her from the garden, where I was watering the plants with rosemary tea. Rosemary tea is used for most rose-type flowers. Since it's spring, it's the time when most of our flowers grow. We were going to harvest for the season. She always makes daisy and mushroom cake my birthday. Now that I think about it, I was surprised that she remembered it was my birthday today, let alone what flavour of cake I liked. My grandmother lately has had a hard time with her memory of things. She has been forgetting a lot lately. It makes me feel as if she might forget me one day. I always hope she doesn't.
I never really like to talk to her about it. I don't want her to be in the pain of thinking she is losing me. Even if she can't remember most things, she has never forgotten me. So as much as I worry, I am sure she will not forget me. "I'll be right there, Nonna! Just giving the plants some water," I replied through the leaves back. I write what I want to tell her on the leaves, and she usually always gets my message.
It was weird how I could feel that the forest whispering secrets through the rustling leaves like it was talking to me. Always wanting to tell me something, I walked along the familiar path that led me home. I could feel something mystifying. I could feel the mystical wind brushing against my cheeks, carrying the scent of magic in the air. It made me feel both excited and scared every time, like the whole world was resting on my shoulders, waiting for me to uncover its secrets. My mind was filled with thoughts of the past and the mysteries that surrounded it. I couldn't help but wonder about the things that happened before, the situations that I couldn't understand. Or the problems I couldn't solve.
It felt as if it was a puzzle that I needed to solve. Like finding the missing pieces to complete a picture. Every step I took was filled with anticipation for what the future held. I knew that if I just kept moving forward, I might find the answers I was looking for. As much as it scares me. I know if I leave the past in the past, nothing is going to change.
I'll never be forgiven. I need to find forgiveness, even if it seems impossible. The answers I longed for felt so close, yet so far away. It was like they were teasing me, just beyond my reach. But I wouldn't give up, I definitely could not give up. I would keep searching, keep walking this path, because deep down, I believed that the truth was waiting for me, ready to be discovered.
Entering the quiet solitude of my nonna's house, memories envelop me like a gentle embrace. The walls whisper of laughter and tears, and of a sister lost too soon. It's strange, considering my sister never once visited this house but I can always feel her presence. I find myself glancing at the photographs adorning the hallway-a collage of frozen moments capturing the fleeting joy of a family once whole. But among all those pictures, I've never seen one of myself. It's as if I exist only in the shadows of their memories.
Fiorenza's absence is a void that lingers in every corner, an ache that refuses to be forgotten. I try my best not to tear up, but every time I think of her, tears fall uncontrollably. There is one photo of me and that is with her and me is the only memory I have of us together. It was taken on the day she left this world. The day that I left her world same well was the day that I left my whole world. As I delicately touch the photograph, tracing the outline of our bond, the hollowness inside me grows deeper. Unanswered questions threaten to consume me and just tear me apart.
I very gently and quietly head to my room trying not to disturb my grandmother from her sleep. She called me but I think she went right to bed. My thoughts turn to the mysterious notebook that has become my connection to Fiorenza's voice. It rests on my bedside table, its pages filled with the inked whispers of her soul. I cherish those words as if they were lifelines. Every letter that links her to this book, each sentence a testament to the unbreakable bond that death failed to sever. But there is still so much I don't understand. I can almost hear her words. Her voice through this book. Her calls for help. Is it possible for lost siblings to communicate in such a way, or is it just my grief playing tricks on me?
YOU ARE READING
Only A Memory
Roman d'amourA teenage girl who went through many turmoils in her life Belaflora Silvestri, such as her sister being sick when she was younger. She was only six years old at the time, and her sister was only fourteen months old when she left the world with an in...
