L'Uva Viola (The Purple Grapes)

The distance from the house to the grape arbor was at least two miles. Or so it seemed to my little legs. In reality, it was less than 100 yards, but I wouldn't realize that until many years later when I returned to Tramonti, Italy as an adult.

The eye-squinting sun produced a heat that bounced up from the stones and kept my bare feet moving quickly down the path behind my Nonna. In addition to the implements in her hand, she was who was carrying my brother piggy back towards the arbor where my grandfather waited. Briefly it crossed my mind that it wasn't fair that he could hitch a ride but the thought vanished as quickly as it came. Even at 4, I could understand how much longer it would take to let a toddler walk that far.

The stones gave way to dirt that was much cooler on my feet and suddenly when we reached the shade of the arbor, it was as if someone had turned the thermostat down 20 degrees. I don't remember what the grown-ups were doing exactly, maybe tying up the vines. It was still too early to harvest the grapes. What I do recall vividly was the sweet burst when I bit into the grape that Nonno gave me, the light filtering through the vines and the quiet buzz of the bees.