Looking between my wife and daughter was like looking at a piece of art with a slight fissure down the center. Somehow one belonged next to the other, but they were altogether separate.
Mia had her own appeal, and one day, over the course of her life, she would have her own interests, whether it be dancing or swimming or whatever path her happiness had her following.
Every day she evolved into a little person who made it hard for me to breathe when the surge of love I had for her hit me square in the chest.
The lyric that played, something about never dancing, made me take a step closer, look harder.
My eyes gazed at my wife, unable to look away from her.
Her leotard was pink, as were her pointe shoes. Her hair was auburn, her eyes close to emerald in the shadows, and her skin so flawless that she reminded me of light breaking through glass.
Her mouth moved, wordlessly singing the lyrics to herself. Her movements were swift, precise, and so achingly beautiful that she might as well have been an angel dancing with light as her partner.
All that she was, she gave over. Just as she did when we made love.
I sniffed back the emotion threatening to consume me.
Her movements slowed, but so subtly that the untrained eye would’ve never picked up on it. She knew that I was watching.
A poignant part of the song began, and this time, I let the emotion flow.
She did things to me. She had always done things to me. And her talent was as powerful as ever.
The end of the song came and Scarlett slowed, bowed to Mia, and pretended to place a rose in the palm of her hand. Mia blinked at her, then smiled and touched Scarlett’s face.
“Mamma,” she squeaked out.
Scarlett smiled and turned her face so that she could kiss Mia’s hands. “Do you want to dance with Mamma?” she said in French. I think. I didn’t have much of the language, but I could understand a few words.
Mia made an excited noise and scooted on her bottom, holding her arms up in the universalpick me up, pick me up!sign. Her fingers wiggled in a way that translated intogimme, gimme, gimme.
Scarlett swooped her up, eliciting a giggle that made me smile. She kept Mia’s head close to her heart, breathing her in, kissing her temple. Mia’s small fingers caressed her mother’s arms, and she made soft noises that let her mother know that she was content. All was right in her world. Then the two began to move. Scarlett faced me, faced the shadows, knowing I was there watching.
My girls danced just for me.
2
Brando
Under the boughs of over a hundred olive trees, the weather was cooler, and the air smelled sweeter. On our property we had an olive grove that produced enough olives for us to need help in the harvesting months to collect them. Depending on how the trees were affected by earlier elements—scorching heat, torrential rainfall and storms, along with fruit flies—the harvest usually took place anywhere from November through January.
Hundreds of branches would be ripe with black and green dots, heavy with the weight of their fruit. Special pliers would be used to collect them. Nets would be strewn underneath the trees to collect the ones that fell. Some people even used baskets. But it was a job that required a group.
Then the pressing would begin to harvest the oil.
Festivals would pop up all over Tuscany to celebrate this time of the year. People took to the medieval streets to relive old village traditions. It was also a time to go mushroom and truffle hunting. Scarlett always joked that we were going to get a pig and train it to find the truffles.
The food during this time reflected the earth’s bounties. My mouth watered just thinking about porcini mushroom pasta.
Instead, I settled on stopping the bike for a second, handing Mia her water bottle and a small piece of cold watermelon.
I took out my own bottle, chugging it down.
Fall seemed to be a far-off dream at this point. We were still in August, a searing month that made bodies languorous. Even the trees and bugs seemed to lag, drifting off to fitful dozes, seduced by the relentless sun, dreaming of cooler days and even cooler nights.
That was why we waited until evening to take Mia on a bike ride around the property. Then she’d go for a swim.
In the grove, the weather didn’t seem as oppressive, the air not as stifling. Each row created a trail through a stretch of olive trees, their trunks twisted and bowed. Some of them looked as though they had been frozen in time, mid-scream. Others seemed to have openings to a new world, Scarlett had once said. Peek a head in and be transported down a rabbit hole.
