I believe that a house is not only a safe haven from the cold and rain. A house is a locked door and an intercom.
I am 15 years old, my name is Maria. I'm in Italy since I was 7. After the death of my mother, my father decided to come to Italy. I've always hated her for this decision. He was a musician, played the saxophone. He dreamed of his own career for me. His brother told him that Brindisi would go to work as a bricklayer. He made good money and would have allowed a decent life for their children. My father decided to take our things, to take me and leave with him.
arrival in Italy I only remember the slight morning light that revealed the distant mainland. It 'was one of the longest journeys of my life. The only.
arrived in Italy to Brindisi, did not even know where to go. A new country, a new language.
"When we go into the new house, Dad?" I asked. "Soon my little one," he said with a look bleak.
I started to cry because I had to pee and there was a bathroom. My father pulled me slapped so hard that I stopped crying shame. I was not the only girl who was crying. But maybe I was the only one who understood that there was a house, let alone a bathroom.
I was so angry. I walked silently followed my father and my uncle. In Albania, at least we had a house there. I remember the brown tiles of the bathroom that my mother was determined to polish every day. A disease if it is taken away in a short time. Her apart from the memory of tile, I take with me a felted wool shawl worked in crochet. The only thing really that I have managed to bring.
I wanted to bring with me the wooden chair that my grandfather had built. And I wanted to bring Fishing also, my doll. But the owners of the boat told us that we could only bring one suitcase with us. We took the saxophone. And we dressed in layers. A light coat, a heavy.
Brindisi I did not like the city.
My father and my uncle went to talk to that job as a mason. I waited for them in a huge square. I heard the whistle of trains. I went and saw that it was a station. It would have been my home for some time. My father returned after a while 'smile, not his uncle. But that smile I knew him very well. It was the same as when he came home after a job interview did not go well.
We had little money with us. He decided that we would have used to buy food. I just wanted to a bed to sleep.
The station did not have all the comforts of home. For example, we went to the bathroom just to wash in the morning, they passed the cleaners to disinfect everything. During the day my father took out his saxophone. His fingers and his breath was our daily bread.
the evening we slept in the waiting room of the station. It was September. But it was already so cold. I clutched my mother's shawl. I closed my eyes and I wanted to wake up on my wooden chair.
After a week my uncle decided to return to Albania. My father always said he was "allergic to work." And it was true. We decided to stay in Italy. But to walk away from Brindisi. I did not like that city. People looked at me wrong when I took off the straw hat with purple flowers to recover a few cents.
We went to a pawnbroker and my father sold the watch to get two tickets to Rome. That clock was worth the memory of his grandfather. Much more than the price of two tickets.
That trip to Rome can not remember. The seats of the train were much more comfortable than those in the waiting room. I woke up on arrival.
Rome I loved her from the first moment I saw it. The station was also greater than that of Brindisi. So large that it could hold all those like us. In Brindisi, it was not. In fact one night the police sent him away a few men of color. They said we were too many.
smells, noises, many faces, the escalators. I was little. Too. I loved everything I saw. Sometimes even I have not weighed a house. And then we looked at Rome as bad when my father played and I took off his straw hat. The Termini station in Rome would have been my home for about 3 years. I knew a nun. Sister Claudia.
I always wore clothes. Some had holes in them, too big. But at least they were clean. Once he invited us to Christmas lunch. My father and I took all the leftovers. But one dark night he stole our bag and took it all away. Brown was a woman in her fifties, told me when he was still married to a man older than her. Went dancing. They made trips to the lake Sunday. Only that he died of a heart attack and the children were able to put her away from home and get your hands on a savings account with his money. He told me of all the places where he had lived. Campaign. Bridges. Of abandoned houses.
On my birthday he gave me a key. The key to my house. A bit 'funny as a gift. My house was his. The concrete bench in front of the escalators.
One hot summer morning my father woke up again. He too had left me. I was 10. I learned to get along by herself in no time. Sometimes Sister Claudia invited me to his parish. But I'm all eyes are painful and disgusted with the girls in their velvet coat them bear. Ran away. Then I squeezed in one shawl. And I cried.
My father taught me one day to play the saxophone. The secret was his heart. One day he managed to earn more than him. He was so happy. We celebrated with a pizza that night. The remnants of fast food left them in Fiji and Bigi.
Fiji Bigi and maybe they were brothers. One was deaf, one was silent. A strange pair those two. They lived only remains found in the trash. Waiting time of closure of the fast food and began a treasure hunt. Their work.
to play the saxophone but we had a real job. I often
the cottages and the countryside where he had lived Bruna. Rome the eternal city. Rome city that embraces you. But a girl of 11 years already woman no longer enough to hug the breast made of concrete and bricks.
took a regional train in the hope that there is not any controller, I chose a window seat. It was April. I do not remember where it fell. I could not read in Italian. Just talk. Really even now I struggle to read.
began to run. I do not know why. But I started to run towards some pine trees. I was a bit 'laid on the bare ground. It started to rain. And I went back to the station. The waiting room was small and cozy. I began to think of the chair. A Fisheries. Under the shiny brown tiles. I took the photo of my mother in her hands and fell asleep.
Today I am 15 years old. My mother is called Rome. My house is the square of the Tiburtina station. Many come here and too many coaches. I see so many people. I guess their lives, their homes. The keeper of the bath is my friend. Every morning I offer breakfast. It is often the only meal of the day. Spending hours playing the saxophone. To wait a few cents to materialize a piece of hot pizza. Every time I go to see Sister Claudia. The last time I went took my shawl. And he washed. It smells of lavender. I
shawl. I have the saxophone. I still have the key that gave me Bruna. But I have a house.
All in all I'm lucky. Struggle to live. But I'm alive. And I'm free. Not like Miranda. You must deliver every penny she earns to Kasimiro. His protector. He told me that makes them do horrible things. But she is happy because he has a bed and a hot meal insured. I do not sell out so my life. Never!
I decided that I will learn to read.
But now I take my shawl. System that old latex mattress that I found near the dumpster and the shield of an old scooter. There are some clouds and you can smell the rain.
Before closing his eyes always smile. Should I cry. And yet I smile. I smile at my mother and father. One day I'll have a house with the gate and intercom.
I am 15 years old, my name is Maria. I'm in Italy since I was 7. After the death of my mother, my father decided to come to Italy. I've always hated her for this decision. He was a musician, played the saxophone. He dreamed of his own career for me. His brother told him that Brindisi would go to work as a bricklayer. He made good money and would have allowed a decent life for their children. My father decided to take our things, to take me and leave with him.
arrival in Italy I only remember the slight morning light that revealed the distant mainland. It 'was one of the longest journeys of my life. The only.
arrived in Italy to Brindisi, did not even know where to go. A new country, a new language.
"When we go into the new house, Dad?" I asked. "Soon my little one," he said with a look bleak.
I started to cry because I had to pee and there was a bathroom. My father pulled me slapped so hard that I stopped crying shame. I was not the only girl who was crying. But maybe I was the only one who understood that there was a house, let alone a bathroom.
I was so angry. I walked silently followed my father and my uncle. In Albania, at least we had a house there. I remember the brown tiles of the bathroom that my mother was determined to polish every day. A disease if it is taken away in a short time. Her apart from the memory of tile, I take with me a felted wool shawl worked in crochet. The only thing really that I have managed to bring.
I wanted to bring with me the wooden chair that my grandfather had built. And I wanted to bring Fishing also, my doll. But the owners of the boat told us that we could only bring one suitcase with us. We took the saxophone. And we dressed in layers. A light coat, a heavy.
Brindisi I did not like the city.
My father and my uncle went to talk to that job as a mason. I waited for them in a huge square. I heard the whistle of trains. I went and saw that it was a station. It would have been my home for some time. My father returned after a while 'smile, not his uncle. But that smile I knew him very well. It was the same as when he came home after a job interview did not go well.
We had little money with us. He decided that we would have used to buy food. I just wanted to a bed to sleep.
The station did not have all the comforts of home. For example, we went to the bathroom just to wash in the morning, they passed the cleaners to disinfect everything. During the day my father took out his saxophone. His fingers and his breath was our daily bread.
the evening we slept in the waiting room of the station. It was September. But it was already so cold. I clutched my mother's shawl. I closed my eyes and I wanted to wake up on my wooden chair.
After a week my uncle decided to return to Albania. My father always said he was "allergic to work." And it was true. We decided to stay in Italy. But to walk away from Brindisi. I did not like that city. People looked at me wrong when I took off the straw hat with purple flowers to recover a few cents.
We went to a pawnbroker and my father sold the watch to get two tickets to Rome. That clock was worth the memory of his grandfather. Much more than the price of two tickets.
That trip to Rome can not remember. The seats of the train were much more comfortable than those in the waiting room. I woke up on arrival.
Rome I loved her from the first moment I saw it. The station was also greater than that of Brindisi. So large that it could hold all those like us. In Brindisi, it was not. In fact one night the police sent him away a few men of color. They said we were too many.
smells, noises, many faces, the escalators. I was little. Too. I loved everything I saw. Sometimes even I have not weighed a house. And then we looked at Rome as bad when my father played and I took off his straw hat. The Termini station in Rome would have been my home for about 3 years. I knew a nun. Sister Claudia.
I always wore clothes. Some had holes in them, too big. But at least they were clean. Once he invited us to Christmas lunch. My father and I took all the leftovers. But one dark night he stole our bag and took it all away. Brown was a woman in her fifties, told me when he was still married to a man older than her. Went dancing. They made trips to the lake Sunday. Only that he died of a heart attack and the children were able to put her away from home and get your hands on a savings account with his money. He told me of all the places where he had lived. Campaign. Bridges. Of abandoned houses.
On my birthday he gave me a key. The key to my house. A bit 'funny as a gift. My house was his. The concrete bench in front of the escalators.
One hot summer morning my father woke up again. He too had left me. I was 10. I learned to get along by herself in no time. Sometimes Sister Claudia invited me to his parish. But I'm all eyes are painful and disgusted with the girls in their velvet coat them bear. Ran away. Then I squeezed in one shawl. And I cried.
My father taught me one day to play the saxophone. The secret was his heart. One day he managed to earn more than him. He was so happy. We celebrated with a pizza that night. The remnants of fast food left them in Fiji and Bigi.
Fiji Bigi and maybe they were brothers. One was deaf, one was silent. A strange pair those two. They lived only remains found in the trash. Waiting time of closure of the fast food and began a treasure hunt. Their work.
to play the saxophone but we had a real job. I often
the cottages and the countryside where he had lived Bruna. Rome the eternal city. Rome city that embraces you. But a girl of 11 years already woman no longer enough to hug the breast made of concrete and bricks.
took a regional train in the hope that there is not any controller, I chose a window seat. It was April. I do not remember where it fell. I could not read in Italian. Just talk. Really even now I struggle to read.
began to run. I do not know why. But I started to run towards some pine trees. I was a bit 'laid on the bare ground. It started to rain. And I went back to the station. The waiting room was small and cozy. I began to think of the chair. A Fisheries. Under the shiny brown tiles. I took the photo of my mother in her hands and fell asleep.
Today I am 15 years old. My mother is called Rome. My house is the square of the Tiburtina station. Many come here and too many coaches. I see so many people. I guess their lives, their homes. The keeper of the bath is my friend. Every morning I offer breakfast. It is often the only meal of the day. Spending hours playing the saxophone. To wait a few cents to materialize a piece of hot pizza. Every time I go to see Sister Claudia. The last time I went took my shawl. And he washed. It smells of lavender. I
shawl. I have the saxophone. I still have the key that gave me Bruna. But I have a house.
All in all I'm lucky. Struggle to live. But I'm alive. And I'm free. Not like Miranda. You must deliver every penny she earns to Kasimiro. His protector. He told me that makes them do horrible things. But she is happy because he has a bed and a hot meal insured. I do not sell out so my life. Never!
I decided that I will learn to read.
But now I take my shawl. System that old latex mattress that I found near the dumpster and the shield of an old scooter. There are some clouds and you can smell the rain.
Before closing his eyes always smile. Should I cry. And yet I smile. I smile at my mother and father. One day I'll have a house with the gate and intercom.
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