An early morning on a midwinter’s day
I waited for the bus down in Giammoro
Taking me all the way to Agrigento
To see the feast of almond trees in bloom
Passengers were mostly retirees
Picked-up from Barcellona to Messina
A young man joined us at Spadafora
Sitting down in the seat right next to mine.
He kept a serious face throughout the trip
Didn’t say a word till reaching Taormina
Suddenly he turned in my direction:
“My name is Matthew, what is your name?”
He kept on talking, some words were indistinct,
About his family, twelve years in Milano,
His return to Sicily, his job three days a week,
“Right, right,” would follow every date
My head was turned away towards the window
Watching changing shapes of my Trinacria
As verdant citrus groves south of Catania
Turned into barren hills approaching Enna
Wheat and hay with green covered the soil
The hills appeared like cleanly-shaven heads
Abandoned homes, scattered through the land,
Reminded me of Sikels and of Greeks
Matthew was still talking, “Right, right,”
I kept on watching Sicily from the window
Road sign read: you are in Caltanissetta
“At ten we’ll be in Agrigento, right, right.”
Coming back we stopped outside the city
To visit Pirandello’s resting place
We saw the old pine tree, by lightening struck
The rock his cremated body holds inside
Of his native home we explored the rooms
With the reverence reserved for a shrine
Matthew kept on saying: “Pirandello, Luigi,”
Dates of his birth and of his death, “Right, right.”
At Spadafora, he bid farewell to all
To each one gave thanks and said goodbye
He walked through the aisle of the old bus
To announce the future journeys in his plan
Then he turned to me to bid farewell,
“We are friends,” he said, “right, right?”
“Right, right,” unwittingly I replied
He waived at me and smiled