Rebecca Frasson Si quaeris

The women in my family pray with clenched teeth, while the dough rises and the floors dry.

They prefer the Madonna’s and female saints’ womb to put their heads and any invocation down; only with some reservation do they put themselves in the male saints’ and God’s hands: men, you know, always do what they can; but women, women give birth, and lick wounds, and make beds, they cook the last supper, remove their make-up at night while crying, and hold your hand while you sleep.

If you lose something dear to you, it’s customary to say the Sequeri thirteen times: Saint Anthony will pull out from under the bed or from a corner in the house the earring, the thimble, or whatever else you lost. Or nearly.

You’ve been gone fourteen days. Your clothes are still in the drawers, there’s a half-read book and the last cigarette forgotten inside a pack. Your voice is still recorded in the voicemail, prints from your dirty fingers are on a glass.

I did try to say the Sequeri every day, thirteen times to get you back: Saint Anthony unfriended me on facebook.

Rebecca Frasson
Si quaeris
Landscape Stories, 2011 | Translation: Francesca Gola

© Rebecca Frasson – 2011

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