Somewhere, Over the Mountains

They say home is where the heart is, which, after recently visiting my birth place, Pizzoferrato, Italy, I truly believe.  But I also know that after being back “home,” where I had laughed and played and enjoyed life as a little girl of seven, it’s also a part of my soul.

No sooner had I arrived in Pizzoferrato, after a long transatlantic flight and meandering drive from Rome, I felt a familiar welling in my heart.  The sights of villages along the way sent butterflies fluttering in my stomach, fueling my anticipation so much so that even an afternoon rain couldn’t douse my joy.

Relatives greeted us at the airport and everywhere thereafter it seemed.  I reunited with cousins and my father’s family members and lifelong friends, easily conversing in Italian while breaking bread and imbibing wine.  I was walking streets that seemingly knew my shoe size, feeling the same warm, inviting sun that had shone on me half a century ago.  It was almost as if I could smell the food and hear the joy of family feasts at holidays past.

When I came upon my grandparent’s home, a place where I lived most of my young life, I fell as silent as the rain upon the grass.  The words of my grandfather echoed like distant thunder from the valley below.  “Melina, over the mountains is America.”

Years later, when I eventually moved to Pittsburgh, poor and unable to speak English, my father said that Italy, the place I loved and so desired to return, was just over the hills near our Oakland home.  I find as much solace and peace in their reassuring words now as I did then.  Somewhere, over the mountains …. 

Even though I so enjoyed this trip, perhaps my last to Italy with my parents, I realize I have another home with family and friends of the heart in the United States.  But for one more time, Pizzoferrato is home as I remember it, as my heart has always felt it, as I will always cherish it in my soul.