writing on the wall

May 3, 2019

When I was a little girl I used to scribble my name on everything. The urge to leave a mark on a wall, in the sand or on on the radiators, as I once I did, is so instinctively human. At least, that’s what I say to my Mum every time the incident comes up. It wasn’t the inky scribble that made her mad though. It was that I refused to admit to it. And that I was willing to let my brother carry the weight of my actions. Little sneak. Not along ago, she was setting the table for a dinner party, and she found Iole’s name written in ink on her white table cloth. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” she wrote in a text. I recognized Antimo’s penmanship, immediately. Little sneak. For the past month or so, I’ve encouraged the children to paint, draw and scribble all over the walls. The walls are their canvas, until they all come down. Everywhere I look now, I see ice creams and flowers, two-headed creatures, trees and sunbeams and hockey sticks. It’s quite magical. Hopefully, some of that urge to leave a mark is being satisfied. Although I foresee many more scribbles on radiators and linens in our future.

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