She said, “I am old. I could die soon. When? Two or three years? Even so, I would give up two years of my life to spend one afternoon with my mum and dad.”
She’s 82 years old. Her name is Bianca. She’s from the small town of Asolo in northern Italy. We live in the same block of apartments and Bianca consistently takes out my rubbish bins every week while in return I keep her supplied with homemade jams and marmalades. It’s an uneven exchange that I have tried to rebalance but it’s been this way for the past two years.
Any time I feel as though I’m being a bad or ungrateful daughter to my own mother, I consider Bianca, who’d give up years just to spend an afternoon with hers. It’s the reminder I need to consider time with my own mum precious.
I thought Bianca wanted to see her mother and father to get to be a little girl again. To be dependent, to be held in softness, to have permission to be playful and silly and maybe a little helpless. But I was wrong. I didn’t figure it out until I went back to Bianca and interrogated the idea.