Nonna, do you like my bubbles?

Always with these bubbles! Be careful, don't spill the soap on the floor!

I can almost see her, bella mia. I can still see how her face would contort when singing that song about the Madonna, full of pietas, full of pain and hope. She was a modest woman, my grandmother, never showing too much emotion. But her last time in Polsi, she remembered, she was singing, she was feeling it all deep down. She did cry. And every time since, this song gave her some tears.

Alberto had parked the car just outside the church. The whole village seemed dormant as usual. A Saturday afternoon, 15 August. My birthday. Everything was slow, everything was warm. Everything was muffled, as usual, in Aspromonte, and in Plati, even more.

Why am I spending my birthday in Platì of all places?

I want to pay my respects to these people who will naturally be curious about me, about us, in the church. Everyone knows each other and they don't know us.

Alberto and I sit at the back of the church, not many people inside; some turn around to look who just came in, but the majority are deeply focused on their praying and their singing, they don't even notice.

I hear mainly women's voices, with the usual, so familiar, tone of voice, the voice that chants this litany.