Open Writing

Her bedroom window is wide open, a perfect frame for the moon. Mina never tires of her landscape: cherry trees in full bloom and, at the foot of the hill, the river, a winding silver ribbon.

"Are you ready?" Her father's voice is loud and clear.

"Coming!" She closes the shutters to join her parents and little brother Tonio, off to the presbytery to help with Easter celebrations.

On the way down the stairs Mina catches her image in the mirror. Curly, light brown hair, large dark brown eyes in a round face. Medium height. So ordinary looking, she thinks. If they only knew, the people downstairs, the people outside, what's going on inside her.

"Have you finished your assignment?"

"Will you give your mother a hand tomorrow?"

Is that all they want to know, all they know, these so-called grown-ups? If only they could guess her state of mind, she muses, as they walk uphill past the main church, bathed in moonlight.

On Shrove Thursday the twilight visit to churches is a must. In spite of her reluctance, once inside, inhaling the smell of melting wax and incense, Mina relaxes. She gazes at the purple and gold tapestries hanging from the side walls and then kneels for a prayer before the coffin at the centre of the nave.

Good Friday. A light drizzle leaves transparent pearls on tree branches. "Typical Good Friday weather. It'll lift later," Father announces. Mina peers at a low, grey sky. Where is he, my beloved, she asks herself. Will he come to the procession?

She visualises the evening procession winding through the town streets, with children scattering rose petals from their baskets and older men chanting a dirge.

In the last three days, Mina and her mother have aired the house, whitewashed the scullery and taken the winter blankets and bedspreads to the laundry. Mina gives a final rub to the copperware. Gleaming pots and pans hang from the dark wood-panelled walls. There's a smell of lavender in the bedrooms and of leavening bread in the pantry.

"Is Gino coming to the picnic with us?"

Fancy, Tonio, mentioning his name! Mina busies herself with the cutlery to hide the sudden flame that runs up her neck and face. Nobody, absolutely nobody must know what she feels.

Easter Saturday. The church bells, which have been tied up for three days, begin to peal away. The sky is a glorious blue. Mina is pedalling fast down the road to the farm.

"Two dozen eggs, four bunches of asparagus and don't forget to pick up the Easter cake from the baker," Father had told her.

Mother has brought down from the attic two picnic baskets. She's ironing serviettes, making sure that nothing is missing.

On the way back, stopping in front of a shrine Mina implores Saint Rita, "Please, please, make Gino see me."

Easter Sunday. A tablecloth is spread on a lawn by the river. "Best asparagus in years. Where did you get them?" asks Gino's father.

"Try our ham and salami. Imported from Hungary," Mina's mother offers.

"Another glass of red? We'll have the spumante later. Bottoms up!" The four parents are toasting.

"A glass of spumante, Gino?" Mina's father winks.

"Not too much to the children." You could trust Gino's mother to say that. But Gino, who is seventeen, just shrugs. He hands out his glass and smiles revealing, strong, white, even teeth.

"Why don't you kids go for a bike ride?" someone says.

They'll be cracking their jokes, now. Mina can't stand some of those bawdy jokes, not in front of Gino. Better be off.

Luckily, Tonio prefers to stay back to play with the dog.

They cycle down the road in single file. The sun's rays flash silver from the chrome of their bikes.

After riding for a few kilometres, Gino, who's been silent, sprints up to Mina. "I've been wanting to tell you . . . for some time . . . you know . . . "

"Happy Easter," shouts a bus-load of waving children. In the cloud of dust and the proximity of the big vehicle, Gino swerves and they both finish up in a ditch. Forcefully thrown together, his kiss tells her all she wants to know.

© Carla Sari