I watched the daughter and the mother walking back home. The mother, now 104 years old, takes a daily walk around the old school. She doesn’t go far but it keeps her connected with the outside, nature and gives her some fresh air and exercise. I think she is proud that she can still do it. Her daughter, like her sons walks beside her as she does so. I suspect she’d rather go alone. I’ve watched her during these walks, particularly when she sits down on the pile of railings that have been dumped on the wasteland. She sits, sleeps, stares and sometimes talks to herself. Maybe she also prays. I don’t know. Either way, her continued independence, one might even call it fierce, is clear. The daughter, as I watched her, looked awkward. She lives in Milan and comes here infrequently. Perhaps their relationship is spiky. I wouldn’t be surprised. Italy is a long way to run to. I did the same, though London wasn’t as far. She has none of the Italian flair. Little appears to have rubbed of on her. Nor does she have the stature that her brothers have. She is small, relatively, round-shouldered and big-breasted. She has a look of her mother in her face but there isn’t much else to say that they belong to each other, are even of the same tribe. She is doing her duty. That is enough.
