THREADS OF MEMORY

(Cover image by Freepik)

I have very few memories of Nonna, the grandmother whose name I carry— fragile, translucent threads that still linger in my memory after more than half a century. The last time I saw my grandparents, my family was preparing to leave Italy for South Africa, and though I was too young to grasp the permanence of our departure, I knew I was saying goodbye to something special. I had never known my maternal grandmother—she had passed away when my mother was just a little girl—but for the first eight years of my life my paternal grandmother filled the role of the only Nonna I would ever know. Sadly, she passed before I could have a chance to see her again.

Some of my best childhood memories are of the times spent in Nonna’s house, when my cousins and I would gather, filling the small rooms with laughter and mischief. When we became too rowdy, she would sit us down and begin her storytelling with an ancient Sicilian nursery rhyme, her voice lilting and steady, as if the words themselves carried a quiet kind of magic. She was always knitting, her needles clicking softly as she spoke. We’d sit cross-legged on the floor, captured by the rhythm of her voice. I don’t remember the actual stories she told, but I am sure she made them up as she went along, weaving tales as deftly as she wound yarn into sweaters and scarves. She had a way with words that held me captive even before I fully understood them, and I believe I caught the storytelling bug from her because ever since I can remember, I made up stories in my head.

The nursery rhyme went like this:

C’era na vota, c’era…
Cu c’era?
C’era ‘na vecchia c’a ciculattera
Ogni tantu ittava n’puntu
Assettiti ddocu ca ora tu cuntu.

Which, translated loosely from the Sicilian dialect, goes something like this:

Once upon a time there was someone.…
….Who was there?
There was an old woman with chocolate to share,
Every now and then she would drop a stitch,
Sit down for a tale, both wise and rich.

I admit to tweaking it a bit to make it rhyme, but the essence remains the same.

In my favorite photo of my grandparents below (circa 1965), my grandfather sits in a wooden chair, his arms stretched out, holding a bundle of yarn while my grandmother rolls it into a ball. His face, lined with years of quiet devotion, carries an expression of peaceful resignation, while she works with practiced ease.

I love this photo—not just because it captures them so perfectly, but because it reminds me of the stories she spun, holding us children mesmerized.

Though years and distance stretched between us, I carried Nonna with me. Her voice, soft yet firm, still lingers in my mind. I believe I inherited my love of storytelling from her, and I like to think that whenever I put words to paper, she is somewhere near, whispering a tale just for me.