In a little village at the foot of the Apennines that no longer exists, I keep small treasures of the mind. One of those places so small that you could play one giant game of hide-and-seek across the whole village, finding yourself shouting “Found youuuuu!” between breathlessness and laughter after the great run. Those places where you could wander off without having to tell anyone where you had been all day, whether picking blackberries from the brambles or discovering just how funny the tadpoles in the stream looked. Those places that no longer exist, whether an earthquake carried them away or growing legs carried you towards other horizons.
The magic was there, within reach, in that time that knew neither calendars nor clocks. A time marked by the sound of eggs being beaten to make zabaione in the morning, by the sun that, without asking permission, gradually turned your skin golden, by walks on cool nights beneath the silver moon. Days that made you forget there was another world of cities. Even the most reliable phones, accomplices in this sweet boredom, seemed determined never to get a signal.
There, nature knew how to light up your eyes. And it had a rite of passage that, every year, continued to amaze me.
It all began with an unusual little breeze that, without warning, started to tickle your shoulders. Then a few clouds framed the horizon and ended up bringing a few too many shadows along with them. Finally, that unmistakable smell arrived: the smell of dampness and earth. It was time for the summer storms.
“Just a little patience” — we would comment, with the faces of true game-playing experts, the children of the village and I — “summer storms pass quickly.” We knew we would soon be back to playing.
And indeed, many times that was how it went. Great swollen clouds amid howling winds, a great racket of rain, and then, just as suddenly, everything returning to calm. I remember that waiting at home well, the moments of silence just afterwards, necessary to make sure it had all passed. From the doorway, we would watch a little stream of water slip along the narrow streets of the village, all the way downhill, while the sky was clear again, unchanged except for that fleeting veil of freshness in the air.
But summer storms do not speak to us only of the weather beginning to change; they also speak of the space that opens up after something comes to an end.
Of those moments, I remember the thrill of discovering that it was not only us, but the woods too, that came alive again with that downpour. All the children would go out into the village to see that unmissable spectacle: that little world that could hardly wait for all that water to come pouring down, after all that relentless heat. I remember snails appearing everywhere, after having hidden away somewhere, who knows where, unbeknownst to us, far outdoing any game of hide-and-seek. And the little snails climbing up every wall, exploring with their feelers, while the toads stayed tucked away in the corners, croaking. Mushrooms appeared as if by magic — or perhaps it was you who simply hadn’t had eyes for them before. The storm was a shining cloak that, as it left, after wrapping everything in its folds, revealed a world teeming with life.
The summer rite, as it were, had a passage of its own: at some point, from storm to storm, like a drum roll played over a swollen cloud, your skin would realize that the season had changed. A coolness arrived that showed no sign of leaving, the days grew shorter, and time resumed its usual pace. That was when it was time to pack our bags, return to the city and then, a few days later, go back to school.
I remember the feeling of leaving that place feeling brand new. The impatience to see my friends in the city again, the curiosity of finding them after a whole summer, perhaps a little taller, a little more handsome, a little leaner, a little more cheerful. Changed, who knows.
And I remember well the taste of melancholy, which could only taste of zabaione: deliciously sweet, with a sharp aftertaste. Strictly made with the eggs of Mrs. Nannina’s hens, the village’s well-known farmer, who, according to my childhood wisdom, must have been at least a thousand years old.
Throughout the journey home, I carried that melancholy close to my heart. Once we arrived home, we would immerse ourselves in the new beginning, and it was already gone.
Gone, like a memory that is never forgotten, but settles gently on the bottom of the heart.
There are places that do not collapse when the ground shakes, and that do not fade like photographs from another time. Places in the memory where time has remained suspended, like dew on the grass in the early hours of the day. There lives the certainty that anything can still happen, that anything can still surprise us. Especially after a howling storm.
Perhaps imagination, like the woods, is not afraid of storms. And, when the time comes, it emerges from the earth, teeming with life.
Adriana Ferretti
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