Every object was a memory; every memory a pang of sorrow. Their room turned into a shrine: images of her sister, smiling sweetly from different frames, adorned with chrysanthemums and evergreens.

She refused to change the position of the furniture.

The bed? It needed to stay right where it was. Her aunts had to continue sleeping in the next room, just like “before.”

Aunt Fifì timidly approached Aunt Vanna. “She could get frightened if she wakes up. That empty bed …”

She heard them. She heard everything with her sensitive hearing.

“Afraid? Afraid of Marietta! Dear, adored Marietta! If only I could see her. Just once.”

And climbing into bed she would sigh, “My Marietta … soul of my soul …”

It pained her heart, calling out to someone who would never respond; and she would fall asleep sobbing under the covers so that Aunt Fifì wouldn’t hear her.

She had thought that you just go on and on … and it always seems as if something good is going to happen, and that life will last forever, and that everyone needs you; and then suddenly it all ends—affections, dreams, hopes that seemed so limitless snap, and the life of the person who’s left behind returns to its unchangeable course.

In their house, too, like humble, silent servants the old habits returned hardly changed at all. Every now and then a neighbor or relative would drop by to talk about the deceased, rekindling memories in a matter-of-fact fashion.

And in time, Uncle Raimondo started coming back in the evenings to play cards with his brother, like before, games that never ended, when all you heard was a monotonous “you and you,” “you and you,” whispered by whomever was playing.

Uncle Raimondo was the oracle of the house: no one could make decisions or resolve a family matter without first hearing his opinion; even don Tano always submitted to his brother. Yet, in spite of an awareness of his superioirity, he never opened his mouth unless he had something to say. He was nothing like don Tano, who so often recounted any insignificant event that had happened in town just to have something to say in front of the women.

“Cavalier Dara ordered a piano from out of town….”

No one responded to his voice, which was always somewhat timid.

Caterina, absorbed in her work and caught up in the vague coming and going of a myriad of thoughts, had no desire to break the lethargic silence that enveloped her soul. She even embroidered in the evenings now, portraits to offer up to her sister. On a silk background the color of slate she traced a delicate garland destined to hold one of Marietta’s pictures.