Lucania — a reflection
The neighbor downstairs just died.
She was married to the architect of the building who, back in the 1960s, raised it up from nothing or from ruins. It’s hard to distinguish the two sometimes in Italy. They lived here ever since.
I say “here” because now it is our home. We moved into the upstairs apartment five months ago. The newcomers who did and do not speak the language except for very general acknowledgements, greetings, and a few ways to say goodbye.
The other residents in this eight story building have lived here for years or decades or half centuries longer than us. I am late to the party. While counting down each of the floors in the elevator, I have found myself asking, “What did I miss? What took me so long to get here?”
We never met her, our neighbor, we weren’t familiar, but she left behind a place for us. I hope the architect’s wife would find it comforting to know we too intend to build.
The only thing I know how to confidently say in Italian is “ciao” — a word for both hello and goodbye.
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