Seeds on the hills.

by Mariarosa Pappalettera (Italy)

Making a local connection USA

Here I am. It’s my second time. I didn’t sleep during the flight. Not because of fear, but I had a well known sense of waiting. I would have liked to know how long ago his wife died. He still looks very pained in his letters and I know this is not the best situation to meet another woman who is, in addition, coming from the other part of the world. The danger is to idealize and imagine a person who does not correspond to reality. Maybe I’ve idealized this city too. I am here because I think my life could be bee different in the Big Apple. I can’t forget my first impression when I landed here for the first time, years ago. It was winter but the sky was clean and unclouded. The airport authority was cold and rude or maybe I misunderstood his attitude. I couldn’t understand any of his words. Eventually he decided to speak Spanish. I tried to answer to all ritual questions. Finally he put the approval stamp on my passport and I jumped on the roads of the mythic America. I was frighten by its magnitude. I was an insignificant being on the famous huge land where the pursuit of happiness is a reasonable and unalienable right, at the same level of the right of life and freedom. I believed in those words. I have been fascinated by this story since I was a child. During the sunset, I travelled on the subway toward my first still life. I skipped one night at the other side of the Ocean to live the same night at Central Park. Grass and trees have the breath of a completely different blue galaxy. I am sitting under the branches of enormous oaks, looking at the red light on the Empire State Building’s spire. Horses tied to their tour carts kick the asphalt. Behind my shoulders the oldest tree of Central Park, the London Plane tree, planted during the Civil war, begins to produce carbonic dioxide in the warm sweet summer night. I formulate my questions to accelerate the knowing process, to fall in love fast. What are your worst faults? I am touchy and moody. Could you accept it? We could become friends before being lovers. Love is something we cannot control. Our bodies can disagree with our expectations. I can feel your suffering and pain because you became in this way: steel and cement on the island of hills. I want to tell you something. Do not work more and more to avoid thinking. It would be better to stay into the nature, meeting people, watching turtles into the lake. I know squirrels do it when they run up on the plants stopping to look at people. I am not perfect. I am afraid to define myself because I think the better way to really know someone is living experiences together. This is the better way to know how big is own generosity, flexibility, listening skills, sense of freedom, ability to take care of each other. Sometimes people are afraid to love and they choose only impossible lovers. Is it the same for the cities? Anyway, we are not in a rush. I will leave your coasts by boat and I will make landfall at Ellis Island. I am in a long line like an old migrant, hoping to obtain freedom and a life. How long did migrants stay mute, trying to decode words and sounds? How much were they obstinate? I feel voices from my country, mostly men, under the curved and glazed roof. I can smell the stench of the long journey and the cold sweat of the fear, because they were suspecting they could have done something stupid. Impossible coming back. Giant the sense of solitude and humiliation. Who is talented, will make a fortune. They heard these words and they dug deep inside and brought out the best. Hills disappeared and skyscrapers stood out like tall forest trees. I am coming back to Manhattan. I try to guess the curve of the horizon. New eyes are looking for a place to live. I am going to plant a little seed for survivors.