There's that one story which she tells so nicely.
Today it came between games of Scopa. Something about the way she was wringing her hands while I was mixing the cards that must have triggered it. I knew it was going to be that specific one too. I could tell by the first words. Even the quality of the breath before the words, I think. The context was calling for it. And it amazes me that she's still right on it. It never ceases to amaze me, actually.
Her father is sitting down at the kitchen table. Probably after dinner. He's doing the accounts. And he's got his head in his hands because he's stumped.
And then my grandmother brings all ten fingers to her two temples to show me exactly what he looked like in those moments. Because those moments are now perfectly frozen in her mind. As if they just happened yesterday. And her blue eyes are suddenly locked in that moment. She's staring at the same numbers her father was. Staring at numbers that just didn't add up.
And then his wife, my grandmother's mother, would place her hands on his back and lean into those numbers and point out exactly where he had gone wrong. She probably knew it without even looking at them - my grandmother seems almost sure of it as she fills in more context. The woman with her caring hands on her husband's back was technically illiterate after all. (Off-Alphabet is the literal Italian translation) So the numbers themselves wouldn't have meant anything. But she had listened to him struggle with these same calculations before. She got the context. Just like her daughter would. And her daughter's daughter, for that matter.
And just like his great grandson would so many years after his death, her husband would just shake his head in disbelief. Every single time, he would. How is it that his wife knew all these things so intuitively, he would ask. His daughter would just watch and never answer the question. But she would record everything with her blue eyes. The tenderness in that disbelief. The grace in being right.
And so much never needing to be said.
Today it came between games of Scopa. Something about the way she was wringing her hands while I was mixing the cards that must have triggered it. I knew it was going to be that specific one too. I could tell by the first words. Even the quality of the breath before the words, I think. The context was calling for it. And it amazes me that she's still right on it. It never ceases to amaze me, actually.
Her father is sitting down at the kitchen table. Probably after dinner. He's doing the accounts. And he's got his head in his hands because he's stumped.
And then my grandmother brings all ten fingers to her two temples to show me exactly what he looked like in those moments. Because those moments are now perfectly frozen in her mind. As if they just happened yesterday. And her blue eyes are suddenly locked in that moment. She's staring at the same numbers her father was. Staring at numbers that just didn't add up.
And then his wife, my grandmother's mother, would place her hands on his back and lean into those numbers and point out exactly where he had gone wrong. She probably knew it without even looking at them - my grandmother seems almost sure of it as she fills in more context. The woman with her caring hands on her husband's back was technically illiterate after all. (Off-Alphabet is the literal Italian translation) So the numbers themselves wouldn't have meant anything. But she had listened to him struggle with these same calculations before. She got the context. Just like her daughter would. And her daughter's daughter, for that matter.
And just like his great grandson would so many years after his death, her husband would just shake his head in disbelief. Every single time, he would. How is it that his wife knew all these things so intuitively, he would ask. His daughter would just watch and never answer the question. But she would record everything with her blue eyes. The tenderness in that disbelief. The grace in being right.
And so much never needing to be said.
