The Sacred Corner
Written in 2006 and included in the PhilWP Invitational Summer Institute I archives
by Franco Fiorini
It’s getting dark now. The wind rattles the old windows of my grandparents’ house. Behind me I can hear the four o’clock round of cartoons beginning and in the reflection of the panes the muted blue light from the television flickers as it is punctuated by the darkness that falls between commercial breaks.
I’m perched on the white radiator cover. My eyes focus on the jetsam of swirling leaves as they are propelled in erratic grouping through the air outside. In a few weeks, this brief battle between the extremes of summer and winter will cease, leaving only frozen stillness. My current position will become unbearable; the cold metal seat, which now stands as a welcome counterpoint to the remnant pockets of summer’s warmth that have been confined within the stone structure of the house, will transform into a reminder of the harshness beyond the window.
Cold. Frigid. Sub-arctic? Every afternoon during the long, still months of winter, I will become the unwilling participant in the thermostat game between my grandparents. “It’s winter. You should dress appropriately,” would be Nonno’s word. For now, I stare into the darkening street, tree-lined and punctuated by the dim lights of the houses of neighbors, who gradually arrive home for the evening.
The wind rattles the old windows
of my grandparents’ house.
I remember my journey to this place an hour earlier, walking briskly from school with the cool breeze reminding me that soon I would need something more than just a flannel shirt to ward off the winds. The stillness and heat of summer have been replaced by the cool whispers of the lindens as they discard their blossoms from swaying boughs.
Visions. Haunted visions and the smells of decay filled me with the stuff of great and ancient narratives as I walked into the fading light.
This house is worn and soft. The rugs perpetually stained by scattered drops of coffee, the wallpaper browning from neglect. Rubbing alcohol, witch hazel and camphor. I haven’t turned on any lights yet. I like it this way. I rotate and allow my body to slide off of my perch and into Nonno’s wing-backed chair. Here, I have found the omphalos, my center. I orient myself with regard to this place, the axes that stretch from this locus stand as the guides against which I navigate. When I sit in this chair, a strange stillness of body envelopes me like a wash of calm that simultaneously becalms my body and awakens my senses.
I imagine the lord who occupies this throne. He rules this kingdom in silence, his face only half visible behind his reading. In his absence, while he sleeps unaware of the torrent of autumn, I am he. I command this universe, traversing the ground he has covered. I write notes in the margins of pages. I underline, draw circles, boxes, symbols, cryptic scribbles, coherent only to the author.
A freestanding oak bookcase is situated next to the chair. Housed within its shelves, are an eclectic selection of books relating to all manners of knowledge – from language, to folklore, to philosophy and religion. These are the embodiment of my oracle, which the hypnotic fumes of knowledge emanate. To pose a question is to receive a response, though the reply may come veiled in ambiguities.
In his absence, while he sleeps
unaware of the torrent of autumn, I am he.
In front of me, on the shin-high coffee table are strewn a variety of journals, papers, notebooks, biographies, and dictionaries. Sitting here, my pulse quickens with the fading light and the metallic clanking of the panes in their frames.
This is magic. This is my exotic world, supernatural, dark, brooding. Dust and the dry crackling of crumbs of disintegrating books fill my nostrils with the stuff of literature.
Franco Fiorini joined the Philadelphia Writing Project in 2006 as a teacher consultant. Franco’s piece was originally written in 2006 and was included in PhilWP Summer Institute I archives.