TE22 Potpourri

Antonella Lattanzi

This Looming Day

1. Francesca got out first. She shielded her eyes from the sun with one hand. She looked at the vermilion gate. With the sun in her face it was hard to make out the contours, but it was there. She smiled. She turned back and leaned into the black Renault Scénic to takeherdaughterEmma fromthechild seat. As soonas she took the little girl in her arms, a one-year-old with curly ash-blonde hair like her father and older sister, she immediately squeezed her hand. Playing with Francesca’s fingers was what she liked most in the world. It was the first word she had learned: finger, that’s all she seemed to know. She settled into the arms of her mother, who pointed to the gate and said, “See how beautiful it is, Sweetie, all red?” Emma began to move very excited, as if dancing. Francesca laughed, gave her a light kiss behind the ear. Emma was irresistible. Francesca squeezed her tight and took a step towards the gate. She could hear the voice of her other daughter, Angela, very close. She knew she was there, behind her. She tried to look past the hand shielding her from the light, through the red gate. Into the courtyard. The sun, which was pleasantly warm, hid it from her. But she stayed there as if hypnotized. At the same time, she seemed to be able to see what was happening behind her: a scene that repeated itself the same way every time, wherever they were. Angela was now stepping out of the Scénic, one foot after the other, wearing her sneakers with the 190

stars that she never took off. Massimo, Francesca’s husband, bent a little to help her out: Watch your head. Everything she loved was all around her, as if in a perfect circle. Her husband, her daughters, their new home. And inside that home, the chance to work on her book and finally make her dream come true.

*

Angela’s voice reached her as if it were suddenly distant, mixed with the male voice she knew best in the world. Massimo’s. Then she felt a light touch on her back. “Francesca,” Massimo said a bit shrill, “are you ready?” And she was ready, she had never felt so good. The world began here. The other girl clung to her free hand. He, her man, the father of her daughters, said, “So let’s go then,” and laughed. Francesca took a breath of the late-February air, which already felt like spring there. “Let’s go,” she repeated. The arm that was holding Emma hurt a little, but it was a dull pain, in the background like a buzzing in her ears. In fact, the pain was almost beautiful: the living mark of her daughter’s body on her. Because she was a mother, and she had so wanted to be one. She was a mother, and mothers squeeze their children in their arms.

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