I Dream I Speak Italian with Grandma

She looks like she always looked,
stooped over, a few strands
of wiry hair on her head,
brown moles staining her face,
her mood sad, resigned.
Come stai? I ask.

She smiles, reaches out,
squeezes my cheek.
Vorrei parlare Italiano con te —
I say, having taken Italian classes
for years preparing for this moment.
Ma che dici? She answers.

I think, perhaps she can’t
speak the language of Dante,
but only her native dialect.
Puoi capirmi?
I say half-heartedly.
She squeezes my cheek again.
Si, certo Gilberto, tu parli beni.

I ask if she ever misses her family
in Sicily. Sure, she says, but not like
before. I used to complain so much,
one day your grandfather yelled,
that’s it, let’s pack up and go back.
But by then it was too late, your mother
and her sisters had roots in America,
it wouldn’t have been fair to them.
Adesso tutto beni.

I tell her I’ve visited her hometown,
and confirm what she always claimed
— the lemons are as big as grapefruits.
She tells me about her sister Angela,
her brother Attilio, how it was growing up,
the six Aeolian Islands in full view
from her bedroom window.

As she talks, the moles and wrinkles fade,
she stands upright, a rhythmic motion
in her hips, chestnut hair bouncing,
hands dance with her every word.