"Now, where did I put those slippers, Gatto? I had them here last night." Claudia, his wife, now gone, had given him those slippers as a birthday gift many years ago. He would never forgive himself if he lost them Giancarlo rose from his bed and scratched his head. The warm Mediterranean sun had just peeked from behind the rolling hills of the ancient village, deep in the Veneto. He had lived there all of his life and knew that he had become so accustomed to the spectacular mountains and rolling, green meadows that he seldom took the time to appreciate them. It was going to be a hot one! Stepping out on to the Terrazo, he stretched his tired and lean body to its fullest height and gazed our across the valley below him As far as his eyes could see, the hills were rich with grapes just waiting to be plucked from their vines. Sophia, his companion of a cat, rubbed against his legs in eager anticipation of her morning repast.

      "The grapes are ripe, Gatto. The Harvest will begin soon. Remember the harvest, my lazy friend? Si, si, I know. We are too old for the harvest now. So what shall we do with our day?" Giancarlo knew full well that he would do the same thing that he had done every day since Claudia died. First, he would check his ever empty mailbox. "No one ever writes to us, Sophia. Why do I bother?" Next, he would make his way down the ancient cobblestone road to the cemetery. Of course, he would stop on the way, and buy some flowers to take with him. He had not had his precious wife in his life for very long before she was taken from him. This, indeed, cause Gaincarlo a great amount of bitterness. As a result, it became his custom to spend the afternoon with his friends drinking Grappa at the local cantina. There would be nothing new in his routine. Only the scenery around him, depending on what time of year it was, changed. This was his lucky day! This day would be different. As soon as he sat down at his usual table, he saw her. She was tall with long, dark hair. Her face was tanned, and she had the saddest eyes he had ever seen on a young woman. And, what was this? Such an abomination! She was not dressed the way the other women in the ancient villagio dressed. The brazen woman wore blue jeans, a tee-shirt, and white tennis shoes! Who was this stranger in his village?

      "She is an American living at the bottom of the hill in the old Manucello villa. The Padrona di Casa . . .landlady . . . speaks very highly of her for taking very good care of the house and garden. In return, she does not charge her a high rent."

      Giancarlo watched as the woman disappeared from view. His curiosity was piqued.

      "Does she have children?

      "No, my friend. That is the tragedy. She has come to our village to grieve. Two years ago she lost her daughter to an illness. They say that she can be heard crying into the night. She spends her days walking the village, and up into the surrounding hills. She will not rest until she is certain that her daughter is being cared for in the after-life. And, so, she has asked for a sign from God. She is asking to see a White Dove. When she sees one, she will know that her little girl is in the arms of God."

      Giancarlo could feel his own heart cry for this woman. He understood only too well the pain of mourning. But a Dove? There were no doves in this part of Italy. She was asking for the impossible! And, so, every day at the same time, Giancarlo watched for the tall American woman. One day, he thought that she looked at him. Was it his imagination? Did he not see her eyes wander to his?

      That night, as he was closing up his house, he made a decision. He was going to walk down the hill to see her villa. Perhaps he could catch a glimpse of her amongst the vineyards. He knew the house well, as he and Claudia had entertained the thought of renting it. What a wonderful place to raise children! The children never came, and Claudia was now gone, and the dream had not been realized.

      As he walked slowly down the hill, he tried to steady his gait. The Grappa had gotten the best of him on this day, and his legs felt weak beneath him. To his surprise she was working in her garden.

      "Buona Sera, Signore," she called with a slight wave of her hand. His heart felt as if it might leap from his chest. She had, indeed, seen him and she had spoken to him. A bit embarrassed at being caught in his curiosity, he turned to make his way back up the hill when he suddenly fell to the ground. Darkness enveloped him as a wave of sharp pain shot through his leg, and in the darkness of the moonless night, so one was aware of an old, drunken man laying on the side of the road. Only Sophia would miss him. When he awoke, he was laying in his own bed with Doctor Paolo sitting beside him and shaking his head.

      "You have hurt your leg, my old friend; however you are very fortunate. A young American woman found you. She called me and we brought you here to your bed. She was very concerned and when I told her that you had not been the same after your beloved wife passed away, she seemed to understand. Tears came to her eyes, and she told me that you and she had much in common. Now, you must rest for a few weeks and . . . per favore . . . no Grappa!"

      The days passed slowly for Giancarlo, having nothing more to do but lay in his bed with Sophia purring at his feet. Then, one morning, toward the end of August, he was awaked by Sophia running back and forth on his Terazzo. Jumping from the bed, he did not seem to feel any pain in his leg. The bed rest had worked and he was finally healing. Throwing open the stained and tattered blinds, Giancarlo was surprised to see Sophia crouched in the corner. Two perfect white doves rested on the wrought iron railing. Quickly, they flew off across the valley, leaving only one white feather behind. Scooping it up, he knew what he had to do.

      Down the old cobblestone road he went with the white feather tucked away safely in the pocket of his trousers. "Oh, God. Please let her be there. She must see this miracle that she has been waiting for!" His prayer was answered. Upon reaching the bottom of the hill, he saw the American woman approaching him. She was smiling and happy to see that his leg was mending and she was extending her hand to him in friendship.

      "I have a gift for you, my friend," he said and he quickly produced the feather. Excited and not believing her eyes, she reached for it. Suddenly, a gust of hot, August wind grasped the delicate feather and sent it flying into the deep, blue sky, where it disappeared. Disappointment quickly gave way to joy, and she laughed merrily as she scanned the sky above her for a trace of the feather.

      It would seem that some of God's gifts are so precious, that one can hold them in their hands for only a short time.

      Giancarlo did not go to the cantina that afternoon. Nor, did he go any other day that hot, August month. After all, it was the Harvest! It was time to pick some grapes! And, so, for the first time in many years, Giancarlo and Sophia climbed the hillside. Sophia slept as Giancarlo worked long hours in the warm sun.

      One day, shortly before the end of the harvest, Giancarlo decided to visit the American woman. he had been so busy with his new life, that the days had slipped past him, unnoticed. Much to his sorrow, the cozy Manucello villa was boarded up and vacant. It was apparent that the flowers in the garden had not been tended on that day. He had stayed away too long.

      "She left very early this morning," shouted a neighbor. "She has gone back to America."

      Sadly, he walked back up the hill, stopping only to buy flowers and to visit the graveyard. As he approached his meager house, he could see Sophia sleeping lazily beside the garden gate.

      "No more picking grapes for us, my tired Gatto. We are getting much too old."

      Before going into his house, he stopped at the old, wooden mailbox. "No one writes to us, Sophia. Why do I even bother?"

      Reaching in, he was surprised to find that something was inside. Not one, but two perfect white feathers were tied together with a white, satin ribbon. They had been carefully placed at the back of the otherwise empty mailbox. Quickly, he pulled them out, laughing as he did so. He kissed them and waved them joyfully in the soft breeze. And, with this, once again they were taken from him and whisked away into the heavens.

      "Si, si, certo . . . it would seem as if some gifts from God are so precious that one can hold them in their hands only for a short time.

      "Come on, Sophia," said Giancarlo. "Wake up! There is much to do. It is the harvest. It is time to pick some grapes!"

Copyright © 2006 Janet K. Brennan