Her arms wrapped around me from behind.
The tenderness with which she held me for that photograph was so full of love that remembering it now only hurts.
A pain filled with longing.
Longing for her.
The anger I feel toward her silence while she was alive cannot erase the love flooding through me now.
My mother.
“Valentina, your dress is magical!”
“Look, Mommy! It really is! It turned into a grape!”
I remember twirling in circles, delighted by a dress that had once been white and was now stained purple.
“Mommy! Let's go stomp grapes!”
I dragged her toward the harvest celebration, where men, women, and children crushed grapes in enormous barrels.
The tradition was symbolic.
Machines handled most of the work.
But every year we participated in a ceremonial batch.
I always joined
