Privileged

by Francesca Swallow (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find Italy

It’s a privilege to be able to take something for granted. I had been able to do that with my dad’s side of the family: there were get-togethers, memories discussed so often that they turned from abstract to concrete. But not with my mum’s side. My grandparents had died when I was a baby and, like a lot of immigrants that had moved to Britain after the Second World War, they had abandoned their pasts too. So when my mum suggested visiting a friend in Sicily near where her father had lived, I leapt at the opportunity. Palermo in Sicily is a tourist attraction, with hundreds flocking to the area every year. My grandfather lived on the other side of the island, where English was rare and the food was excellent (I’ve never had better seafood). It isn’t wealthy; people make do with what they have. Men on motorcycles dodged us as we walked along a maze of pavements. Above us, women gossiped over their balconies while they hung their washing. My grandfather was born in the small town of Licata. To call it a town was a stretch; it was more like a collection of houses surrounded by wild grass. As we looked round, my mouth filled with the bitter taste of disappointment. As childish as it was, I felt cheated. I couldn’t picture my grandfather living here. It only solidified the fact that he really had nothing. It didn’t leave me in the best mood to see my mother’s friend. I felt guilty when they rushed out of the flat, smiling and hugging as if we had returned from war. Guilia, my mother’s friend, spoke English, but her husband and the rest of the family spoke only fluent Italian. We managed to get by with mimes. In their comfortable living room they offered us coffee and biscuits from an expensive shop. My mum and Guilia were chatting away - I hadn’t seen her this animated in a while. As we spoke of families, Guilia asked, “Would you like to see pictures?” Italians are family-orientated, the definition of both loving their family and taking them for granted. She pulled out a photo album, showing off pictures of her grandchildren. I obediently turned the pages, commenting now and then on gap-toothed children when I was confronted with an image of myself. The photograph was instantly recognisable: age fourteen, wearing a dress to my cousin’s wedding. Another page revealed me and my brother smiling awkwardly on a family holiday in Rhodes. Supplied by my aunt, Guilia had pictures that we didn’t have. There were images of my cousins, younger than I had ever seen them. One showed them in a park on the swings, my eldest cousin Maria not past six years old. Between them was a face so utterly familiar yet hopelessly foreign. My grandmother knelt between them, tanned and grinning. Losing family is losing a part of your future. I missed out of birthdays, Christmases; having her kiss me goodnight; phone calls that would never end, because she wouldn’t stop talking; her telling me that I was beautiful when I felt hideous. Jealously swelled in my chest when friends spoke to their grandparents, so casually it made hurt. People who say you can’t miss what you never had are idiots. She looked like me. Guilia had given me a link to my family that I hadn’t expected. I realised when they took us on a tour of their town, family members popping their heads round doors and children tugging me along, that I hadn’t just discovered my mum’s family; I had gained a whole new one.