Scribbles by Sudhansh

Corleone, a deserted rathole where the stone walls still held her laughter, 
Niccolò and Grasso sat with empty glasses, the wine long gone, 
remembering Apollonia…
their little sun, their fierce-hearted sister, 
now taken too soon, leaving only echoes in the Sicilian July.

They see her small again, barefoot on the dusty courtyard tiles, 
counting to twenty with eyes squeezed shut, 
her voice high and teasing: 
“Ready or not, here I come!” 
How she crouched behind the olive barrel, giggling so hard she gave herself away, 
how they pretended not to find her for minutes just to hear that laugh again, 
how she always won at hide and seek because they let her, 
because the world was brighter when she was the one hiding and they the ones seeking.

Grasso remembers the day the stranger from Palermo lingered too long, 
his words sliding like oil over her young shoulders, 
the way his hand reached…
Grasso’s fist closed the distance before thought could catch up, 
blood on the cobblestones, the man’s face a ruined thing, 
Apollonia pulling him away, frightened yet proud, 
whispering, “Enough, Fratello, enough,” 
her hand small on his trembling arm, 
the only one who could ever stop the storm inside him.

On birthdays she rose before dawn, 
flour dusting her cheeks like soft snow, 
making cakes with careful hands— 
lopsided, sweet with honey and love, 
no recipe but memory, 
presenting them to her brothers like small miracles, 
candles flickering in her dark eyes, 
“Make a wish,” she’d say, 
as if she believed wishes could still come true in their house.

And then the wedding… 
the day she became someone else’s, yet never stopped being theirs. 
How she lifted the veil just for Niccolò, 
tilted her head, fingers brushing the necklace…
that gifted chain of silver and light… 
her smile so wide it hurt to look at, 
“Look, Niccolò! Look how it catches the sun!” 
she said, turning in her white dress, 
a bride and still their little girl, 
so happy the air itself seemed to blush.

Even after, when Michael took her in his own world,

A world she barely knew a thing of..
she wrote letters thick with his name…
Michael this, Michael that…
how he laughed at her stories, how he held her hand in the dark, 
how she missed the hills but loved him more. 
She spoke of him to her brothers like a secret kept safe, 
a treasure she wanted them to love too.

Now the necklace lies folded in silk, 
the courtyard is silent, 
the cakes no longer rise, 
and hide and seek has no players left. 

Niccolò touches the empty chair where she sat. 
Grasso stares at his scarred knuckles, 
wishing he could have fought death the way he fought for her honor.

They grieve in the old way… 
quiet, deep, without end,
two brothers holding the memory of their sister 
like the last warm light of a Sicilian summer, 
refusing to let it fade.