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Aunt Lil wants to get to the grocery store beforeGeneral Hospitalstarts, so we say our goodbyes and ourI love yous, and I promise to call again soon. I’m wiping my tears on my sleeve when there’s a knock at the door.

“Ciao, signora.”

Signora Strazza has a look of concern on her face as she takes in my bloodshot eyes and runny nose, but she doesn’t pry.

“I called my aunt in Sestri Levante,” she says. “She was so happy that somebody was interested in the Montini family. She knew all about them and even remembered that when the Montinis left for America, the little girl left a wagon behind and gave it to one of my aunt’s cousins. They must be your Montinis. She said it would be a good idea to show you their old homestead; it would give you a true picture of your people. I can take you.”

Snow Day

Signora Strazza and I walk under the loggia of the Piazza Alberica. She has pulled the silk scarf from around her neck, put it over her head, and tied it babushka-style under her chin. A few lazy snowflakes flutter through the air. We make our way past the Caffetteria Leon d’Oro to the street beyond the piazza.

“Looks like we’re getting a dusting,” I tell her.

“My husband used to say that snow was lucky.”

“That’s funny. In New Jersey, it’s a curse. We have to shovel out from under it.”

“This way.” Signora Strazza points to the Via Sorgnano, which leads out of the piazza to the countryside. “It’s not far.”

I take her arm. “Tell me about your husband.”

“He was handsome. A very kind man. Quiet. Angelo is like him.”

“It must be hard. So many years together.”

“I’m grateful, but my life as I knew it is over. There’s no place in the world for a widow.”

“That’s not true. You have friends. You have Angelo.”

“Widows wear black not because we’re in mourning; we wear it to disappear.”

Uncle Louie hated when I wore black because it was all that I wore. “Signora, in America, we wear black because we look thinner.”

She laughs. “You Americans. You take the worst thing that could happen to a woman like me and turn it into a fashion statement.”

“It’s not deliberate. Believe me. Americans are nothing but practical.”

Signora Strazza stops and takes a turn onto a small side street. “This is Santuario Madonna delle Grazie a Carrara.” Signora Strazza leads me up to the facade of the church, a Romanesque cathedral built of local marble. She points to Via Carriona, which cuts infront of the church steps. “This road is as ancient as marble itself. This is the path they used to transport the marble to the sea.”

We walk until we reach the end of the road. An abandoned two-story farmhouse, made of fieldstone and wood, sits back from the road on the hillside.

“Here we are,” she says as we reach our destination. “The Montini farm.”

The frame of the Montini farmhouse still stands, but time and weather have gutted it. We can see through the first floor to the field behind it. I imagine my grandmother as a young girl, playing in the field. Standing here, where she once stood, makes me miss her even more. I snap photos of the old house. I post one photograph with this message:Simple beauty.

Signora Strazza points. “The Montini family lived upstairs. The bottom part of the house is where they kept the animals. When my mother was a girl, they had two goats that provided milk for every family in Carrara.”

“Grandma Cap told me about the animals sleeping beneath them in the house. She said they kept the house warm.”

I peer in through the window frames, where there once was glass. Inside, I see a dirt floor with thatches of brown grass growing through it, a broken trough, and columns of wood that hold up the house, outfitted with rusted gear, hooks, chains, and prods. The wooden doors to the stalls have collapsed, their hinges holding what is left of the planks that once kept the animals safe inside. Only the ceiling beams appear uncompromised, though the stucco between them has worn away.

Signora Strazza and I walk around the outside. A set of roughhewn wooden stairs climbs to the second floor of the farmhouse. The wood is peeling and splintered; rusty nails jut through the wood where it has worn away.

“I wouldn’t go up there. The property was abandoned so long ago. The steps might not hold you.”

“It’s not that far to fall,” I assure Signora Strazza. She stands back and tries to talk me out of it, but I carefully take the steps to the top. The door is gone on the landing. I look inside. A stone fireplace on the far wall is all that is left of the room. The mantel has rotted away. Half the roof is gone, which explains the ceiling in the barn below. There is no furniture. Nothing left behind, not a bucket, a stool, or an old tin cup. From the doorway, I can see through the floorboards to the stalls below. I make my way down the creaky stairs.

“Satisfied?” Signora Strazza says. “You could have fallen through.”