Lost & found: a mother's island, a family's echo
The scent of salt and sun-baked stone still clings to memory – a stubborn ghost of Alicudi, a volcanic speck in the Mediterranean that stole a piece of my soul and, it turns out, a significant part of my family’s history.
A stairway to nowhere, and everywhere
D.H. Lawrence called Sicily ‘unforgettable’. For us, Alicudi was the same. It’s a place utterly resistant to modern convenience, a jumble of steep slopes and centuries-old steps leading to the skeletal remains of a long-abandoned crater. Getting there wasn't a vacation; it was a calculated endurance test – a flight to Palermo, a precarious boat ride, the reluctant assistance of a donkey, and then, the 450 steps. Everything hauled manually, a testament to a stubborn refusal to surrender to ease.
My mother, a writer perpetually chasing the elusive whisper of an island’s story, christened our family home “her room of one’s own.” It wasn’t opulent, just a small, sun-drenched space, a sanctuary carved into the rock. It was here, amidst the quiet, that she wrestled with her narratives – tales of the island's past, often intertwined with the very landscape itself. For me, it became that too – a refuge from the relentless buzz of city life, a place to unspool the tangled threads of my own imagination.
That feeling – a profound shedding of the urban grime – was earned, undeniably. It required a deliberate, almost painful effort. But the reward, that first glimpse of the turquoise sea from the summit, was a visceral affirmation of the value of struggle. The house arrived through my adventurous uncle, a fortunate find in the late 80s, and we’ve been returning ever since – 1992 to be precise.
I remember vividly the static hiss of my Walkman, the monotonous heat of a summer afternoon, utterly bored by the palpable absence of people. Yet, even then, as a child, I recognized the worth of that stillness, the space it afforded for a solitary world constructed of rocks, sunlight, and the endless rhythm of the sea. It became a foundational element in my work, a persistent echo of those island afternoons.
Later, as adolescence fractured and family ties frayed, Alicudi became an anchor. The island’s quietude offered a balm against the chaos of my brother’s struggles, a silent promise of stability. Even as I navigated the complexities of marriage and parenthood, the house remained a constant – a space where the compromises of domestic life dissolved, replaced by a simpler, deeper connection. The jasmine-scented air, the warmth of the sun-baked walls, the distant murmur of the port – it was a space that existed outside the demands of everyday life.
My father, a Sagittarian with a surprising capacity for stillness, discovered a gentler side on the island, a vulnerability rarely seen elsewhere. I witnessed him, for the first time, truly open – laughing as my granddaughters styled his hair with an electric shaver. It was a revelation, a glimpse beneath the surface of a competitive spirit.
But the most jarring news arrived unexpectedly – a phone call, a whispered announcement. My parents had sold the house. The decision, delivered without consultation, felt like a theft, a severing of a lineage. The silence that followed was louder than any argument. It wasn’t just the loss of a building; it was the loss of a shared history, a repository of memories painstakingly built over decades. The realization hit me with the force of a wave: they hadn’t considered my grief, hadn’t acknowledged the profound significance of that place. The shift was subtle, almost imperceptible, but irreversible. It’s a reminder, perhaps, that even the most deeply felt connections can be eroded by a lack of consideration, a failure to truly listen.
As I stood on the train, the news still echoing in my mind, I understood that the true inheritance wasn't the house itself, but the ritual of saying goodbye, the acknowledgement of loss, the preservation of memory. It’s a gift I intend to pass forward, ensuring that each new chapter is marked by a moment of mourning, a chance to honor the echoes of the past. The house may be gone, but the island, and the women who shaped it, remain – etched forever in the landscape of my heart.”n