Crimson Feathers

tre.

As I inhaled the contents of the freshly rolled joint I had been craving to smoke all day, I gazed around at my surroundings. Situated at the back of my Nonni's substantial estate, the corrugated iron garden shed had become my refuge throughout the years. I had spent a great deal of time at my Nonni's house throughout my childhood, and as I matured, the shed had been the place I would seek out whenever it all got too much for me. Throughout the first twelve years of my life, I spent many hours in the company of my Nonno, who also used the shed as his own sanctuary. I would listen to his stories, and then translate his words from Italian to English in the notebook the best I could. When I had finished writing, Nonno would take the book gently from my hands, and store it in a locked toolbox that he kept in the handmade wooden cupboard that he stored his tools. I never asked why he locked up the notebook, and just assumed it was a special secret that he wanted to share with his favourite grandchild.

Nonno's garden was his pride and joy, and buzzed with life. His hard labour, combined with tender care, produced rows and rows of tomato vines, which resembled a never-ending enchanted forest that I could get lost in, hiding away under the sprawling vegetation. The grape vines, he manipulated so that they attached themselves to the wire fence located on the back border of the property. White lilies, pink and yellow roses and exotic birds of paradise grew in various bursts of colour around the yard. Olive, fig, and orange trees were also scattered around the estate. There was not a patch of dirt that wasn't blooming with some sort of vegetation or flora, except for a couple of square metres next to the shed that were fenced off. That was the chicken pen, and every day after childcare and then primary school I would run as fast as my skinny little legs would carry me, and count the seventeen chickens that occupied the pen. This was to ensure that they were all still there because Nonna Martina told me that the wild dingoes that came down from the nearby bush-scrub might feed on the chickens at night.

Sitting at the opening of the garden shed, on the tree stump that ever since I could remember had been used as a stool, I breathed in the intoxicating aroma of cannabis. I remembered back when it was Nonno who sat on that tree stump, and I, on the overturned milk crate he placed next to him. After I had counted the seventeen chickens, I would watch in wonder as he rolled the green bud between his worn fingers, pressing it into his antique pipe, which he then brought slowly up to his lips, lit, and puffed away. It was a daily ritual, and one that I looked forward to. The essence of marijuana was always left lingering in the air, merging with the fresh aroma of the tomato plants, creating a magical world where I conjured up fascinating creatures, who accompanied me on amazing adventures. The world always seemed just that little bit indistinct when returning back up to the house, and my parents never had to complain that I would not go to sleep when bedtime came around, because as soon as my head hit the pillow, I slept soundly and deeply.

Now there are no tomato vines to play in, no flowers to preen over, and only one out of the seventeen chicks left. My mind and body have grown up, and wiped out my ability to be able to sanely go on enchanting journeys with make-believe friends. Resting calmly on the now lice infested tree-stump, I looked out at the garden that was once so alive. It was dirt; barren and dry. No one had time to look after it, to keep it going when the creators of such beauty had to leave this earth. Time escapes us, and we can never get it back.

I looked around the shed, which was now empty except for a few old garden tools that were in no condition to be sold, so had been rusting away for years. My eyes settled on the tarnished toolbox, now located in the far corner of the shed instead of the cupboard, which had since fallen apart and been used for firewood. I hadn't thought about its contents for quite a while, out of sight out of mind, and wondered how long it had been sitting there. Curious, I retrieved the box and wedged the lid open, the lock having worn away.

My leather bound notebook sat on top of a bunch of old newspapers and photos. I flipped through a few sepia photographs, recognizing the baby in the picture was my mother. I picked up a crumpled Italian newspaper clipping, dated August 24th 1939, and titled "Una Cadavere Della Madre Giovani Era Trovava Sulla Spaggia." It translated to "Young Mother's Corpse Found on the Beach," and as I deciphered the article, learned how a lone fisherman had anchored his rowboat in the shallows off the coast of Campania and found a young woman, wearing only bloodstained underclothes, floating amongst the lapping waves. A local identified the body as Evalina Puro, and police declared no suspicious circumstances of the death. The article also featured a quote from the local priest, who said that there would be no funeral as the woman chose to give up her place in God's Holy Kingdom and no amount of prayer would allow her entry into Heaven. Why would Nonno have kept that article?