Stanza 251

mercoledì 19 settembre 2012

Sofia's Grandmother


Sofia's grandmother sits on the park bench. Dressed totally in black, a headscarf covering her head, she seems to concentrate solely on the needle and thread she is weaving through the fabric. Yet while she sews small tight stitches, in and out, in and out, Sofia's grandmother is aware. She watches Sofia's every move. She catches Sofia's every word. She is present. 
And yet Sofia's grandmother speaks not a word of this country's language. She understands not a word of what Sofia is saying to the other children. A stranger, like many, she sits listening and watching the child's laughter, her sighs, her every expression under the mop of frizzy black hair. 
All children are alike, she thinks. All children can be good and bad, she is sure, and so she observes her granddaughter attentively. 
Two blonde children play with Sofia: they take turns pushing each other on the swing; they run up and down the jungle gym climbing frame; they hang upside down on the bars; and they talk and talk and talk and gurgle in a language that Sofia's grandmother does not understand.
Sofia's mother moved to this country to be a care worker. She had been taking care of a very old woman for barely three months when she met her husband, Sofia's father. They had fallen madly in love and got married without telling Sofia's grandmother. 
That was a very difficult time for Sofia's grandmother. Her telephone conversations with her  daughter were too brief, too cryptic. She knew she was hiding something from her but couldn't understand what, nor why. Distance was like that. However far, you picked up every subtle nuance of emotion. You heard every inflection in the voice, but without the eyes or facial expressions it was harder to decipher. When, pregnant with Sofia, her daughter finally told her the truth, it was too late to advise or even comment. She simply took note and prayed it would go well. 
Now, after settling in this strange country to rejoin her only child, she observes her daughter's marriage in awe. She studies the mechanics of their incomprehensible communications. She watches the couple attentively, trying to overcome her puzzlement that this thing, this union can exist. She continues, however, to mistrust mixed marriages; she knows the problems that can arise from a culture gap; she herself married a man from a different village and  paid the consequences of that decision for many years until he took his last breath, heaven help him. 
There is a saying from the old country that she just cannot discount, however hard she tries: choose wives and oxen from your own community. Why wives and oxen specifically, she  cannot fathom, but the meaning is clear. People from different cultures are like summer storms: they start out being refreshingly interesting and end up tediously boring, or worse. Spiritual affinities cannot be curbed by borders,  but the customs and traditions therein are the intangible things that people might or might not share.  Understanding these is as important as love in a union.
Sofia's grandmother wonders at all these things as she listens to her grand-daughter babbling incomprehensibly with her friends, happy and yet worried. Happy for Sofia's obvious momentary integration, notwithstanding the dark skin and eyes, and worried that one day as a young woman these same traits may be a burden too heavy for her to bear. And would her beautiful daughter be able to assist her child then? Would her lovely daughter who had glided her whole life on the surface, loved and admired by all, raised among people of her own kind, know what growing up different really meant? Only time would tell, so all Sofia’s grandmother can do for now is to watch over the two most important people in her life, silently, attentively.
A ripple of laughter floats through the air. Sofia, clutching the ropes of the swing, stretches her dark legs into the air gaining height. The blonde girl pushing her squeals with delight.
Sofia's grandmother sighs. Children around the world are really all alike.

Matilde Colarossi

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