Ricordare Poem by Colm Keenan

The Italian said:

We used to play football in our neighbourhood in Mortara.
It was a little square of gravel next to the street.
Sometimes one of the guys would kick the ball too hard and it'd go up and over one of the balconies.
And you know, there was one balcony we always prayed the ball wouldn't land on.
It was the one belonging to the old witch.
When the ball landed there, it was game over.
The old witch would come out onto the balcony with a knife.
She'd hold the ball up and pretend to throw it back down to us.
And we'd all be there shouting, begging, and even giving her compliments by the truckload.
But it was always the same.
There'd be a flash of sunlight from the upraised knife.
It was kind of like Morse code.
She'd stick it into the ball.
Sometimes we heard the hiss.
Sometimes it was a pop.
And other times there was no sound at all.
Anyway, she'd let the shapeless piece of rubber fall down onto the street.
And then before disappearing, she'd wave the knife at us and cackle.

We get nostalgic, out of the blue, don't we?
It comes and cannot be reasoned back into its box.

I was home recently.
It was lashing rain, and I mean lashing.
I drove around Mortara.
The wipers were at full speed and I could hardly see.
Anyway, I ended up in my old neighbourhood.
There were fewer trees than I expected.
The square of gravel was now a manicured garden with shrubs and flowers.
I made inquires about the old witch but was told she was long dead.
I walked the block, not able to make any sense of it.
My suit and shoes were getting soaked.
I stopped to stare up at that balcony.
I don't know how much time passed.
Then a foreign man with a moustache came out and looked down.
He asked me in a gruff voice what the hell I was doing.
I told him I was remembering.
He gave me an ultimatum:
remember elsewhere...
or remember having balls.