where Stella was still theirs before she was gone to God. It was in this moment that Enza screamed, loud enough for God to hear, “No!” But it was too late; the little girl was gone, her soul returned to the stars she had been named for just five years ago.
Was all of this somehow her fault? Enza had planned the picnic that day. As the eldest, she had packed the hamper and led them up the mountain. She had wanted to read a book in the bright sun. She had allowed the children to play in the pond under the rush of the spring waterfalls. She had failed Stella, and now she had failed the whole family. Now Enza looked around for someone to absolve her of her irresponsibility, to forgive her for the mistakes she had made, but no one stepped forward to break the bondage of her massive guilt. She needed the arms of her mother and father around her, but they were filled with Stella.
Giacomina’s pain was so deep that her back began to heave, her entire body to rise and fall, just as it had when she birthed this child. She cradled her daughter’s lifeless body, feeling the last warmth of her. A father mourns, but a mother, whose child is born of her body, remembers the soft kisses that become the act of two loving bodies joined together in sweet privacy, which begets the first flutter of joyous pregnancy, to the soft, slippery kicks as the baby grows in her belly, to the moment when her body opens up to bring a new life to the world, and yields to a despair that will never leave her.
Stella was Giacomina’s winged angel child, quick to laugh, impertinent with facts she learned from her less wise older siblings, and in total tune with the magic of the world, a curly-haired fairy who danced on the surface of life, soaking up the details of the world around her with a sense of wonder, identifying the possibilities in everything she touched, as she examined glittery mountain grass, hummed along with musical night winds, or embraced the miracle of water at every opportunity, to splash, bathe, and revel in it. And, as fleeting as a sun shower that moves through quickly on the sweet breath of a summer breeze, she was gone.
The hand-painted statues of Saint Michael the warrior, Saint Francis of Assisi with the lamb, Mary the Mother of Jesus crushing the green snake, Saint Anthony holding lilies in one hand and the baby Jesus in the other, Saint Joseph in a carpenter’s apron, and the Pietà, a grieving mother holding her dying son in shades of gray, were lined up in the bright sun in the garden at the church of San Nicola for their annual bath.
Ciro imagined that this was what the devout think heaven will be. Upon their deaths, they will proceed to a garden, filled with a seraphim of perfect saints, with unlined faces and thick hair, waiting to greet them in white light, wearing robes of purple, blue, and green, their smooth, long-fingered plaster hands indicating where to go.
Don Gregorio may have found Ciro’s lack of devotion odd, but Ciro thought the believers were the strange ones, with their relics, incense, and holy oils whose mystical powers did more to raise questions in his mind than provide answers.
Ciro mixed the special cleaning paste he had invented in an old tin drum. Through trial and error, Ciro had created this paste to clean and polish the statues and delicate ornamentation of the church. For this special chore, Ciro mixed a cup of fresh, wet clay from the riverbed of Stream Vò, a few drops of olive oil, and a handful of crushed lavender buds in a drum. He put his hands in the mixture and squeezed it through his fingers until it became a soft putty. After rinsing his hands in a bucket of cold water, he picked up a moppeen, twisted the end around three fingers, and dipped the cloth into the paste.
“Va bene, Saint Michael, you’re first.” Ciro made small circular motions, gently rubbing the paste onto the base of the statue. The gold lettering, “San Michele,” gleamed as Ciro polished the surface.
Of all the statues in San Nicola, Ciro felt the closest kinship with Saint Michael. His strong legs, broad shoulders, and silver sword raised high to battle evil appealed to Ciro’s sense of adventure and aspirations for courage. Plus, Saint