Fire

Condemned

                                                                         I.

     The record spun well into the evening. Volume lowered, the symphonious voice of Roberto Alagna sang Si Maritau Rosa throughout the dead atmosphere of the room. My eyes closed at the music. Tendons sore, muscles  strained. The third cigarette tonight perched itself loosely between my beaten lips as smoke slithered upward towards the ceiling blemished with nicotine. Any escape I could use. Spell blind and rolling my shoulders at the familiar melodic chorus, memories of my grandfather's property revealed themselves. 

     A home that carried the Bianchi history in its walls sat independent behind a field of Siracusa's most luscious lemon groves. There was no limitations set for how gluttonously I filled my lungs with fresh citrus from the variegated white blooms of my grandparents' trees. They lined single file in rows from one another with healthy opulent leaves, parallel they stood like they were summoned into battle. In late October, I ran through these aisles as a girl.

     Picking lemons before they were ripe, browsing around for fallen fruits and hoarding them into my small shoulder bag was my speciality. After tiring myself from scurrying through our tiny orchard, I would lay in the grass, sucking on all my sour rewards. Forecasts were always clear and active with a gentle breeze that tangled itself fluidly into my hair. Although always instructed not to, I of course disobeyed in one way or another when my grandparents warned against playing on the equipment. I would climb inside wooden wheelbarrows and spread my arms, tilting my head toward the sky to allow all the filth from the city to escape from my body. There was nothing I enjoyed more than cleansing myself with the countryside. Their home flowed with vines of fuchsia bougainvillea that belted along the entryway whenever I emerged from the field, sweaty with dirt on my clothing.

     My grandmother, sweet Galicia, bless her heart, would stand in the doorway cursing at me to remove my shoes with a tray of homemade Cioccolato di Modica in her hands. A bit senile, she would do this several times over before settling back into the kitchen, then anger when I took too long to react to her forgetfulness. This was one of the places I only visited once a year, whether it be in July to witness the summer lemon, or late fall to await the December flowering. The record screeched, then began the smooth rhythm once more:

"Vinni la primavera

li mennuli sù n'ciuri

Lu focu di l'ammuri

lu cori m'addurmò,"

     The song sang of love, fire and Spring. I inhaled deeply, lost in imagery, the cigarette blazed and sprinkled flakes of ash into the lap of my silk gown. Black shadows imitated my movements against the walls of the inadequately lit space as I attended carefully to my welts. Tint with orange from the flickers of flames, the room burned around me with Baronessa Cali. The air was full with the scent of Catania, and soiled in Mongolia blossom. It was a smell so sweet that it lingered in my things many days after I lit the candles.