#and we sat at a wooden table and loooked at the rain and trees and wet streets and it was so calm

[qualitypizzapatrol-blog]

The Cherry Garden

Morning. Sara was standing motionless by the window. Rain drops were swiftly streaming down the glass, frantic water ants, while dense clouds were crowding into the sky; bad sign.  That morning her dad went out early for the sunday function as he has been doing for the past 10 years, her mother was not home that day. She took her time, had a boiling hot shower and a rich breakfast. Tea was boiling in the kettle spreading out all over the kitchen a dense aroma of ginger mixing up with the smell of very well toasted bread, honey and melted butter. Butter is life, that s what she said. Her life was normally pretty frenetic with few moments spent totally for herself, that s why every sunday she performed a ritual to regain the harmony she needed.  After quickly check the news on El Pais mobile app and after some social media activity she started her ritual : lunch preparation.  The cutting board had to be clear so she moved all the unecessary tools and started deboning a couple of fresh gilthead brims. The fish was emanating a good smell, of seweed and salt. She was sensing the sea in that tiny kitchen , one of her mother’s passions. They used to have a little house by the sea, a little boat , a litte dog named Charlie; thinkin about it everything was little at that time, but now it felt like it took up a whole half of her memories.  The fishes’ eyes were bright, the meat was compact and the bones were slipping away easly . They were now cleaned up and ready to get chopped in small pieces . She was making fish meatballs, her mother’s recipe. When she was little they used to go on their little boat fishing all togheter, Charlie included and sometimes they were so lucky to bring home enough fish to cram their little kitchen. She was the best fisher in the family because she naturally knew when was the right time to give line to the fish and when she had to fight strongly with it. Maria was so proud of her daughter, enough proud to control her seasickness just for the joy of lookin at her so excited. Charlie. He was such a lame dog, the best kind of, always trying to eat the fish in those 4 seconds between the water and the fishbox.  Sara was beating eggs and adding flour in order to obtain a thick batter in which she would have plunged the meatballs before frying them. She spent so many sundays loooking at her mother hands while preparing it that she internalized the process.  The oil was frying and she could really see Charlie stretching his snout to seize one of the negletted meatball on the cutter. She wouldnt have said anything to alarm her mother so she could prevent Charlie from getting his load of happiness. She has always wondered how that dog could actually extend his muzzle;so much fun. Sara realised she had been gawping for a couple of minutes at the cutter full of meatballs. Memories were just mixing up with reality and she was feeling so stupid for getting glassy so easly. Sundays, always the same story.  The oil was smoking, bad sign, she had to throw it away and refill the pan. This time timing was perfect and she fried those meatballs amazingly;  as her mother used to say “light but crispy”. Sara put the some paper in a plate and delicatly put the meatballs on it, the paper didn’t even get soaked with oil, such a great work.  She got surprise to hear the church’s bells ringing ; 12 tolls, it was already lunch time. Sara got a bit nervouse because she wanted to have everything set up for lunch before her parents came back.  The first time she prepared food for her parents was 8 yrs ago ,at their beach house, she was 10 and she could clearly remember how messy and awful was the result of her efforts. Charlie secretly had a large dinner that day. Presents are made for the pleasure of who gives them, not the merits of who receives them.  Keys clinking in the door. Everything was ready; 3 lunch sets of silverware, wine, toasted bread with butter and obviously the glorious meatballs.  Dad came in, he was calm,relaxed and like every sunday he faked surprise for the prepared lunch.  -" Hi Sara” -“ Hi dad, lunch is ready, great timing “ Her dad kissed Sara on the cheek , misty-eyed. -“ Looks really amazing. While I was coming back I bought some pastries. Put them in the fridge before the cream starts melting down” They sat at the table and after few seconds her dad said “ You know Sara, we should stop setting lunch for 3 on sundays. Your mother is not here anymore and we should stop torturing ourself with nostalgia” That sentence hurt Sara more for the ostensible indifference than for the real meaning of it. -” I thought you wanted to feel her close to us too..” - “Ofc Sara, but not like this. It s not an empty chair that reminds me of her, it will never be it. Whenever I enter this house and i think about the struggle we got through to buy it, when I look at the furniture and I think about the days spent arguing on choosing Ash or Walnut and ending up buying a Wengè, when I look at the scratches on this wooden floor and I hear our feet running up and down chasing eachother or chasing you, when I see a picture and i remember the smell of her skin or the warmth of her touch, there it s where I feel her close to us. Do you think I need more than this?” Sara was speechless for a couple of minutes, his father was right and she knew it, she rationally has been knowing it for a while, but it was just to hard to face. Her dad interrupted Sara’s thoughts “ you know what we could do? We should plant several cherry trees in the garden. Do you remember she loved them right?” Sara realised what was behind his father’s idea - “Yes, she loved putting cherries into spirits, making tons of marmelade and she used to tell me that when she was little she loved when her granpa was taking her to the cherry garden. She would have loved your idea”. Sara spoke the truth, her mother would have hated this long, unspoken and silent grief she was secretly holding. Even when she was very sick she has never wanted to indulge in sorrow; she spent her last year doing with them as much as she could, like she wanted to give them as much joy as she could have given in a lifetime. Sara remembered that when Charlie died her mum planted the most fragrant roses where he was buried. She used to say “Remember the roses, not a missing dog” .  Her dad, misty-eyed, interrupted all these thoughts - “Stop talking and thinking. Let’s open this bottle of wine and have a toast. We need a toast right now.” Sara pulled out the bottle from the ice bucket, it was still cold. Before lifting up the glasses they both gave a glance outside, it was raining a lot more than before and the windows were beaten by water and wind. 

not much of a painter, not much of a writer.