“Dad’s gone. You need to come home, Elsa. Now.”
My brother Luca doesn’t like to play with words. He gets straight to the heart of the matter. An approach so different from mine. I work with words. That’s why I always try to find the right ones, especially if I address them to those I love.
On a July morning the cards of fate turned my life upside down. The world tilted.
The loss of my father was a shock. He was the pillar of the family. The news of his sudden heart attack left me with a dilemma. What my world would be without his smile, his hugs, his boisterous laughter, and his unwavering guidance? What would have become of that girl, still full of dreams, with a job as a freelance journalist?
I knew that those dreams would be set aside. I don’t know for how long.
My father founded the family farm. The one that allowed us a wealthy life and, still today, gives work to other families.
My brother, after graduating in Economics, started to take care of the commercial aspect but still too young to take on such a huge responsibility alone.
On the road that brought me back from Rome to the Florentine countryside I thought about what my role could be.
One thing I was sure of: I needed to process the grief right there where everything began.
*
The rolling hills of Tuscany stretch out endlessly before me.
I look out from my room and admire the wildflowers swaying in the warm breeze.
It’s hard to believe that a few weeks ago, I was moving through the busy streets of Rome, chasing stories in search of the next scoop.
The scent of damp earth and ripe grapes fills my lungs. The rhythm of the countryside is in stark contrast to the sterile buzz of the newsroom, the deadlines, the caffeine that kept me awake for so many nights.
I left the noise for the symphony of silence.
Our villa is more than just a house. It is a living, breathing entity, imbued with the laughter, the tears, the triumphs, and the struggles of generations past. It is Dad’s sanctuary.
The first few weeks were tough. Not just for my inner balance. I knew almost nothing about winemaking, pruning vines or grafting trees.
I have always lived my life in the countryside as pure leisure. Typing on the keys of my laptop has always been my favorite sport.
My hands, accustomed to keyboards and notebooks, are clumsy as I fiddle with tools and get tangled in vines.
The farmers look at me with a mixture of patience and amusement.
And then there’s Lorenzo, the agronomist who manages the vineyards. We have known each other since we were children. He has always had a soft spot for me, as I have given priority to work and passing stories. My parents have hoped for a long time that I could start a family with him. He gently takes my hand, indicating how to hold the bunch of grapes as I cut it. A caress that warms my wounded heart.
It seems that time helps us live with absence. Maybe it will be true. While waiting for that moment, I have begun to embrace the rhythm of rural life. Every day is an exercise in resilience. My days are marked by the clucking of chickens and the satisfaction of nourishing life from the soil. I am learning to understand the subtle balance of nature that allows vines to thrive. I find comfort in simple tasks: picking olives, breathing the fresh, earthy air.
Every afternoon, I find myself among the rows of vines, as the setting sun casts long shadows across the landscape. I run my fingers along the rough bark of ancient vines. Often, Lorenzo finds me there, lost in thought. “This land,” he said to me one day, his voice soft but firm, “reminds me of your father, his care, his dedication. This land will guide you.” I could listen to him for hours as he explained the intricacies of the vineyard, the fine nuances of each variety, the rhythms of the seasons. His passion mirrors my father’s, a deep connection to the land.
Between hard moments and a sense of duty, I am discovering the power of change. What started as an obligation could turn into an opportunity.
Lorenzo inspires me with his suggestions and my father’s legacy guides me.
Little by little, my mother is resuming her daily rhythms. She prepares preserves and tarts to serve to the laborers during breaks. She used to do this by singing. Now, she is silent but, from time to time, she gives smiles.
In the drawers of the cupboard I found notebooks with some of mom’s recipes. In some pages I find my fathers writing.
I love your potato pie.
I love you. Baked pasta today?
This is my favorite cake. I adore you.
Those notebooks have become my comforting reading to devote myself to in the evenings while the sun sinks below the horizon, painting the sky with shades of orange and purple. Sitting on the porch, with a glass of the family wine in my hand.
“Why don’t you start writing again?” Lorenzo asks me one evening in late August.
“My mum and my brother had the same thought as you.”
“And you didn’t have it?” He repeats, munching on yet another cantucci. ‘Your mother’s cantucci are always divine.’
“Mum’s cantucci biscuits are addictive.” I reply with a smile. “And as for writing, it doesn’t seem like a distant idea to me anymore.”
“So, will you return to Rome?”
I read a hint of melancholy in Lorenzo’s eyes.
“That’s not so sure.” I say. “The magazine I write for will soon start a column dedicated to Italian food and wine excellence. I offered to write about Tuscany. I can do it from here, sending the articles, as and when.”
“Your father would be proud of you.”
“I hope so. It would be a part-time job anyway.”
“A big decision.”
“My life has changed in a few months. My priorities are no longer the same. I had everything here but I looked elsewhere for fulfillment.”
“You’re young, it’s normal.”
“I don’t want to be just a journalist anymore. I would love to narrate, to weave the threads of my family’s history with my homeland.”
“Whatever choice you make will be the right one.”
“And will you be there?”
“Always. Forever.”
“These are important words. You may not be able to keep your promise.”
“I have always loved you, Elsa.”
His words are charged with a lifetime of unspoken feelings. I looked at him. He has always been a constant presence in my life, a silent guardian. Today, he could be something more than a special friend. He is a deep, abiding affection that was rooted in shared history and mutual respect.
Dad always said that change is inevitable but it’s how we respond to that change that defines us.
I look to the future with gratitude. For my father and my family. For Lorenzo.
A new chapter is starting. A chapter filled with new scents. The taste of home, the taste of love, the taste of my future. And I was finally ready to embrace it.
I’m walking through the darkness to find the light.