Again and again, walking through the streets of this small town, I was flooded with memories of my childhood. I remember days spent in the sun, pretending to sleep during the afternoon, eager to be back outside, kicking a ball back and forth. Summers in Sicily were made for dreaming and I wished they’d never end.

I opened the door and lowered my head to climb the stairs. I rummaged through old memories: cards and photographs and traces of the past that have accumulated over the years. I remembered the times we’d be sitting on the floor and you’d tell us stories of knights, giants, sorcerers and magical lands, and we’d picture every scene, every word you said.

I remember every story and nursery rhyme you ever told. They punctuated our evenings, the hottest summer afternoons. And then there was the moment you’d open that drawer and take out the book in which you wrote down all your recipes. We awaited that moment when we’d watch you cook and we believed ourselves to be quite the assistants. Everything you made was a surprise, or a little ritual that repeated itself time and again.

And here we are, just like before, together in your kitchen, peeling oranges, chopping tomatoes, looking through all your notebooks, reading aloud your instructions noted down in that handwriting of yours that is so perfectly legible. You left us with so many stories, Grandma Filo, not to mention all your recipes that represent our ties to this land, to that which we love the most.