She nodded and then pointed to the street and the
apartment buildings and clusters of neighborhood people milling about doing their best to escape the summer
heat. ���Do you want this to be the rest of your life?��� she
asked. ���If you do, then stay and your father can find
other uses for the money. But if this isn���t want you want,
then get on that plane and go to Italy.���
���What���s there that���s not here?��� I asked.
���You tell me that when you come back,��� my mother
said.
She stood and walked slowly back up the steps and
into the hallway of our building. I finished the rest of my
ice in silence.
M
y Italian journey was divided into two parts. I
was to first travel to Northern Italy, to Florence, and stay
with relatives for three weeks. From there, I was to head
south, for the long trip by bus, train and boat to the island of Ischia where the bulk of my mother���s family lived
and where my bloodlines began.
In Florence I met aunts, uncles and cousins who
treated me with great affection, accepting me at first
sight as a member of the family. I was teased about my
���New York Italian��� and put into the care of a five-year old
cousin who through giggles and hearty laughter helped
navigate my way to speak Italian as it was meant to be
spoken. I met two uncles who had each been prisonHYLAND
