The Final Solstice

I | Solemn Calamity

⋇ ⋆ 𖤓 ⋆ ⋇
Granada, Spain: 1989
Sofia Accetta

                They say that a mother's love is the strongest love there is. If anything, it's to imply that their hatred is just as strong. Sometimes, I wondered how my relationship with my biological mother would've been, if I had not gotten abandoned. In any case, the reasoning was never brought to light. I jumped between foster home and foster home, and I've seen it all. From the mountains of Valencia to the castles of Málaga, eventually landing me in idiosyncratic Granada. All throughout, I habituated myself to the palpable and unwavering looks the caretakers threw at me. I knew they knew, and they knew I knew, yet we all decided to dote on the willingness of our silence, and nothing became of it.

Truth be told, I was a burden. An unwanted weed that wouldn't let mother dearest blossom. She was young, free, and I was a sign of her growing adulthood and responsibilities.

She ran. She ran towards her hopes and dreams.

I just so happened to be in the opposite direction.

I suppose I should thank her, because I never got the chance to verify the legitimacy of my statement. Though when it comes to foster parents, truer words have never been uttered, the veracity is crystal.

I was thrown into hundreds of different homes in hundreds of different settings. I was sixteen at that time, but the one I remembered the most is from when I was eleven years old. I was taken in by this Italian couple that had recently moved to Spain, Giorgio and Fiorella. I had just run away from a group home managed by the worst possible old crones imaginable. They practically enslaved me and the other children, making us work day and night cleaning the heinous shack they called a home. Ironically enough, the others all escaped. They swiped a few hundred euros from them and snuck out in the dead of night. They offered me to come with them, but I couldn't do it.

            Eventually, I did it.
Believe it or not, when the amount of "workers" you have reduces drastically in number but not the amount of chores, the remaining housework gets loaded onto the last. I was furious. Wipe the floors, clean the windows, shiny the bathroom, organize the books, do the gardening, and for what? It was a soulless place, no amount of cleaning would've changed it. In a fit of rage, I too stole some money before searching for a train to take me as far away from there as possible. I vividly remember that muddy-brown shack fading into the foggy distance, and leaving the weight of stress that suffocated me for so long behind in that horrid town.

When Giorgio and Fiorella came across me, they took me in. I had been homeless for a few days, hopping from town to town, from motel to motel, with barely enough money left to last me another week.

They were an old and retired couple, possibly in their mid-80's. They were simple people, living a simple life. I was taught how to cook and bake, how to sew myself a dress I liked and I even learnt how to read. They already had children of their own back in Italy yet I felt so close to them. Every morning, the three of us would have a cup of jasmine tea on the front porch together, spreading an array of jams on our slightly-burnt toast. I remember everything. The leaky faucets that would never leave the house silent, the wood floors that would creak with every step, the occasional crease of their smile lines on their kind faces every time I learnt something new. I even remember the chipped tea-cups that we would drink out of.

Though after a few months passed, the wife, Fiorella, fell sick. It was barely noticeable at first, a few measly coughs, but over time it worsened. The treatment she needed wasn't something provided in Spain, and so they needed to go back to Italy, to be surrounded by the care of their real family. They didn't want to leave me, and I didn't want to either.