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I struggle upwards on the ancient Roman cobblestones, the heat seeping into my thirsty pores, dripping sweat onto my sunburnt cheeks. Piediluco is a ghost town, windows shuttered against the midday sun whilst the inhabitants, oblivious to the lone Sunday nomad, rest in the coolness of their homes. The Chiesa di S.Francesco (sec. XIii) is to be my momentary refuge, the wide expanse of its heated steps toward the open wooden doors invite me into its cool, calm embrace. Almost there, I hear the faint ‘Ciao’ of a woman’s voice. Across the narrow cobbled street, directly opposite the church, leans a woman out of the top floor window, her short silver hair framing a benevolent face. ‘Ciao’, I reply with effort. ‘Is very old. Saint Frances build it’. ‘Si, grazie’, My default Italian. After marveling at the simplicity of the interior and commenting in the Visitors Book, I decide to find the graveyard tap to refill my empty water bottle before walking the ten kilometers to my final destination. Descending the steps, I notice the bright blue sweater against the dull facade of the building, and smile at the keeper of the church. She beckons, then disappears. Curious, I cross the narrow road and impulsively follow her upstairs into a living museum. Indicating I sit, Maria leaves, returning with a tray containing two mismatched cups, a Moka pot and half empty bottle of Sambuka. Wordless, she pours the aromatic coffee, adding a generous dash of Sambuka, hands the larger mug to me and gestures, with ‘Saluti’. Downing the alcohol laced, cooled liquid, I feel my teetotaler cheeks redden. I had stepped into the Centre of Maria’s world, her life story laid out in picture frames decorating the whitewashed walls of her living room. Icons of Mother Mary, Jesus on a cross sculpted in plaster; a rosary draped over a photograph of Luigi, her grandson, now sprinkled in dust. Her daughter, Isabella and suave husband on their wedding day and beyond. Her son, Domingo, a successful businessman in Roma. Family photographs and mementos through the years. Maria’s memories kept alive in this little room where a daybed hints at her favorite space. A pillow in a faded flower casing, a sheet neatly folded underneath, a leather covered Bible on a tiny candled night stand, irs cover buckled and raw at the edges. We move to the centre of the room and stand in front of a weathered black and white wedding photograph. I watch her mind leave to a time long ago. Tears fill her eyes as she points to the man beside her younger self, and quietly says ‘Morto. Diabete’. Her childhood sweetheart whom she married at eighteen in the church over the road. She does not need to tal, because I understand. Maria is now alone. As if awakened from a dream, ‘Venire’. I follow on the guided tour of her generous apartment. The rest of the home is unused. The main bedroom is the piece de resistance. As if waiting for someone, Mother Mary looks compassionately down from above the empty brass bed. The blue patchwork quilt perfectly placed, pillows puffed, two armchairs symmetrically sit at the foot, the double wardrobe a soft green hue. Maria opens the creaking doors onto a tiny patio with wrought iron railings. I am struck by the view over the lake as the late afternoon clouds grow heavy with rain. Below, two women chatter whilst their hands yank weeds strangling the vegetables. I savour the moist air, my senses piqued, until Maria calmly takes my hand and walks me to the kitchen to refill the empty water bottle. The water takes a while to turn cold and when filled, I pack it into my backpack. Descending the brightly colored tiled steps, I fill with a mixture of love and loss, and as she kisses my cheeks in true Italian fashion, my tears well. I hug this diminutive woman from a village somewhere in Italy. Walking into the first raindrops, I turn and catch a glimpse of her standing at the open window looking toward the Chiesa di S. Francesco. I wave a last goodbye, and in that very moment, the heavens open.