When night fell

13 | peaceful letters

I didn't go to grieve class every week.

Ever since Mamma's death, I knew Papà had kept her letters in the wine bottles upon the bookshelf in his bedroom. I knew he had read them sometimes, mostly before he got to marry Salomé. I had never given it much thought. I knew in the back of my mind that Mamma had addressed them to Papà, and it wasn't necessarily my business.

However, when I got older, I became curious. Well, maybe curious wasn't the right word. I longed for Mamma, and therefore longed for things that had once belonged to her. Everything she had touched, I wanted to touch, and the letters got close to that. Several times, I had asked Papà if I could read her letters.

Papà had always told me that I could read Mamma's letters when I was old enough. But when was I old enough? Every time I asked, he said that it just wasn't the right time, at that moment.

The more he said that, the more I made up in my mind that he was hiding something from me. And when a parent says no, to do yes is dangerously tempting. So when Papà was at work, and Salomé was downstairs doing some laundry, I sneaked into their bedroom, and searched for the wine bottles.

Much to my disappointment, I saw that the wine bottles had been exchanged for actual books. To be truthful, that hurt me deeply. I had absolutely no business in Papà's bedroom, but it felt like he had replaced her.

Seated upon their bed, I glanced at the pillows, remembering how I laid in between them on Saturday mornings, where Mamma would write Italian words upon my bare back, and where Papà exchanged smiles with Mamma, sometimes turning around to snore some more.

I sighed sadly, looked around, then, next to Papà's side, I noticed a wooden crate, filled with the bottles, the letters still in it. It felt nice that he kept them close to himself while he would sleep, although I wasn't sure if he had placed it there with that purpose.

But before I could reach the letters, Salomé stepped inside the room, with a laundry basket full of their clothes. I felt caught red-handed, cleared my throat while I quickly tried to make up an excuse.

"Benjamin?" Salomé's voice was soft. It always was. I don't think she had ever raised her voice at me. "What are you doing here, sweetheart?"

"Oh, I.. uh- I heard you coming up the stairs and I thought maybe you needed some help." I looked down, staring at my bare, wiggling toes.

I didn't know if she was buying it, but she said nothing. "That's nice of you. Sure, you can help. Do you want to stuff the socks away?"

That's how I found myself putting away all of their clean clothes. It was such a bore, but to keep myself entertained, my eyes kept going back to the wooden crate.

A few days later, on a Saturday afternoon, Papà and Salomé went for some errands. They asked for me to join them, but I thought this was the perfect opportunity to read the letters. So I told them no. I would simply play Hayday on the iPad, or go to Nolan to take the bikes outside. They agreed, so the moment I heard the car drive off, I ran upstairs.

I didn't know where to start. There were many letters, and I had to make sure that they would stay in the same place, before Papà would notice it. I took a picture with the iPad, so I knew the exact order.

Reaching for a few bottles, the smell of wine hit my nose when I opened them. Mamma must have washed them out, but the smell was just too strong. Though, it comforted me that I knew Mamma had tasted the wine, had smelled the same aroma of it.

"Oh, Beniamino, when you turn eighteen.. I will teach you how to drink it!" Mamma would have smiled at me. I knew how to pour in the wine, only listening to the sound of it, I knew how to twirl the wine around the glass so the wine would burst with flavor, I even knew how to take a sip, letting it swirl around in my mouth so the taste would be optimal, although I had only done that with grapejuice, but, it still counted. I knew it all. But Mamma never had the chance to let me do the real thing. I wasn't even eighteen yet, and she was already gone.