ELISABETTA71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvoriun2VsP
There’s something ethereal about the way a person’s face glows when they’re happy. It’s something that’s hard to explain and even harder to sketch, and it has a way of spreading.
Everyday I spend an hour in the park sketching the faces of happy people. Mostly tourists, which are usually just a bunch of rowdy American families on summer vacation. I’ve already drawn the faces that show up on a regular basis. Besides, there’s a certain elation in the expression of those seeing Italy for the first time that I like to explore in my art. Would I have that same sense of wonder if I didn't walk in this park everyday?
I can’t imagine not knowing everything about my home, not understanding my own history. People come from all over the world to hear the stories of the gladiators, the Punic Wars, and our famous founders Romulus and Remus, while I’ve grown up listening to these stories in school. I see evidence of them everyday. Echoes of Ancient Rome are etched in every angle and curve of the buildings that line the street. Though my country’s history may not inspire wonder in me as it does those who have never seen it before, that doesn’t steal away my passion for it. When you live in an ancient place, it’s hard to escape the allure of the past.
I’ve just finished shading the eye of the child’s face when he skips over to his mama reaching his arms into the air as if to say, ‘Up, please.’ She scoops him into her arms and walks away, joining a man pushing a stroller down the path.
I look back down at my sketchpad satisfied to have captured this moment.
I sweep my eyes over the park one last time before deciding to pack up. At this time of day the activity in the park dies down as tourists find a place to eat authentic Italian cuisine. My stomach growls, reminding me I also have to eat and I picture the left-over cannoli in the fridge. I sigh. The tourists will certainly be eating better than me today.
I slip my sketchbook into my canvas bag, and swing the straps over my shoulder.
The walk home is long, but it’s familiar. It’s better than calling a cab anyway. When I walk, I can hear the birds in the trees, the usual hum of traffic and the jumbled voices of people I see as I pass by. Sometimes it inspires me and I lock away the images in my memory so I can draw them later. Other times, I’m drawn to a window display or an object. My world is an endless stream of inspiration.
Before long I reach the front porch of our little townhouse, a stone building with its recently repainted turquoise shutters. Mama’s hanging plants drip over the iron porch railing, looking a little dry. I make a mental note to water them later as I reach for the front door knob.
“Those plants don’t get nearly enough love these days.”
The taunting voice stops me in my tracks.
Signora Russo’s curly head peeks out from behind her own throng of plants next door.
“At least I willbe passing the inspection on Friday,” she says with a teasing smile.
If Mama could hear Signora Russo’s commentary on her neglected plants she’d shoot back with an equally condescending remark, just to keep their little neighborhood rivalry going, but I settle for a question.
“What inspection?” I ask, though I know exactly which inspection she is referring to. It’s all Mama can talk about, the Horticultural Society and their competition to see which member’s roses bloom the brightest. Signora Russo tells me exactly this.
“So they’re inspecting the roses, are they?” I cock my head to the side, pretending to think for a moment. “If they’re just inspecting roses, I’d say Mama’s hanging plants are safe.”
I smile to myself and Signora Russo chuckles as I walk inside, rather pleased that I’d come up with a witty reply so fast.
I take my shoes off at the door and enter the kitchen.
Mama is sitting at the kitchen table, shifting in her seat. When she sees me she shoots out of the chair with a gleeful expression on her face. She waves an open envelope in the air wildly. My heart skips a beat, when I recognize the emblem on the letterhead.
“It’s from Magnum Cerebrum University!”
I choke back my excitement. After months of waiting, it’s finally here. “Wait, you read it?!”
Her only reply is a sheepish look. I hope it’s not an indicator as to the contents of the letter.
“MAMA,” I scold through my laughter. “That’s a federal offense!”
Her cheeks redden. “I just couldn’t wait. I’m so proud of you, Elisabetta. You deserve this.”
She pulls me into a hug.
“So?” I poke her in the side.
“So, what?”
“Did I get in?”
“Here!” She practically crushes the envelope into my palm.
I smooth it out and reach inside. The letter bears the long awaited or possibly dreaded words. But the pure pride in my mom’s smile suggests the former.
We are pleased to inform you, Elisabetta F. Fiore, have been accepted into the History and Art programs offered here at Magnum Cerebrum University of Venice.
That’s all I read before I fling the papers to the floor and jump into Mama’s arms. We jump up and down, squealing with excitement. Mama stops, settling her hands on my shoulders. “I’d say this is something to celebrate.”
She winks and I know exactly what she means. I reach into my pocket for my phone and send my friends a quick text.
ELISABETTA: I got in! Let’s celebrate.
VALENTINA: You go girl! Dama Danzante just opened up. I hear it has good vibes. And free appetizers! You know I’m a sucker for appetizers. I’ll drive!
BIANCA: Yes! Maybe you’ll meet a hot waiter. Today seems to be your lucky day.
SIENNA: When?
VALENTINA: I’ll pick you up in 20 bro.
SIENNA: Sweet.
ELISABETTA: Sounds good! See you then.
“The girls and I are going out for dinner to celebrate,” I say, looking up from my phone.
“That’s great!” She exclaims. “Where?”
“The Dama Danzante. It's a new restaurant downtown.”
“Oooh, I’ve heard it’s super posh. You might want to change.” She winks at my brown cardigan and jeans. I blush.
“I know just the thing,” she says, dashing to my room.
Leave it to mom to think of my outfit.
I follow her to my corner of the house, walls lined with my favorite sketches. My eyes land on the faded Magnum Cerebrum pennant hanging above the bed. It’s been there for as long as I can remember. Night after night I dreamt of attending the same school Mama studied at. Finally I can boast of my own achievements there rather than Mama’s. She has to shove a pile of sketchbooks and school pamphlets out of the way to open the closet, and she starts sifting through my clothes.
“We’ll celebrate as a family when you get home,” she babbles. “I can’t wait until your papa finds out, he’s going to be so happy for you. I’ll make the cake while you’re out, then you can eat it when you get back. Oh! you might get dessert at the restaurant. Maybe something lighter then. Cookies?”
I laugh. “Cookies sound great Mama.”
I fall back into my desk chair, as my mama throws a few tops on the bed. For a minute, I soak in the joy radiating off of her. It’s one of those moments when everything is right in the world. My plans are unfolding, my dreams are coming true, everything is just right. But I know enough about life to wonder how long it will last.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡv1QhiDuslk
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