Published on July 23rd, 2020 | by Edvige Giunta2
Your Mother Is Brave
My son, you may not know that your mother was brave once. At seventeen I defied the fascist youth on the streets of Catania, brandishing a piece of paper. I left home, country, language, family. The street was my friend.
You would not have known that I was brave when you watched me stand fearful behind the glass door and mumble, “Perhaps not today. Perhaps I will go out tomorrow.”
That night I was breaking.
But you said, “Come on, Mama. Let’s go.”
You saw me balance in the middle of our street in our town ravaged by a virus.
I took small steps and hugged myself to hold my pieces in place.
“Look, Mama,” you said. “It’s okay. Breathe. Open your arms.”
I inhaled and air trickled deep down inside me. A slow exhalation and my arms unpeeled from my chest, one at the time. I hugged the empty street and shivered but kept walking. And you, my boy, slowed down to be by my side.
“It’s okay,” you kept saying. Your voice was calm and patient. The see-saw of care tilted. This time you were the one.
I don’t know if there was a full moon that night, but there should have been.
Leaving is an act of courage, even when you stay afraid.