Milano Memories - a short story by ME

She used to be my Uncle Adam’s girlfriend and she was the first Italian woman I ever met. I was seven at the time. An Indian girl who moved to Italy with her Jewish Indian family in 1969.


Sandra came with Uncle Adam to pick us up at the airport. Her brown lush mink coat reached just above her knees. Below were a set of slim ankles encased in transparent skin-colored tights and black, high-heeled pumps. Her ankles were misleading. Looking only at them you’d expect their owner to be tall and thin. Sandra was tall, but on the plumpish side. She had a big homely bosom, tightly ensconced under her soft, silk, flowered shirt. Her arms were large and soft, her bottom plentiful but firm. She had a loud, booming, no-nonsense laugh. Her blue, mascara-rimmed eyes crinkled when she laughed, lighting up her round face. Her short chestnut-brown curls were blown back to reveal a wide forehead yet unlined with worry. Her thin lips were lipstick red, reflecting the colors of her large ruby earrings.

Tortelloni alla Meneghina

Yesterday night, five years ago exactly, my father passed away. On a Monday night at 8.30 pm.

He passed away in a rehabilitation center. My mother and sister MSH were with him. I had just walked out of his room to say goodbye to one of my Aunts. The doctors had warned us his time was up, but of course one is never ready for death.

Milano, I'm back!

Well, here I am. In Milano, Italy. The city in which I grew up. The city in which every corner has a little memory. We came here, MM, MB, MG and me, together with my older sister and her two children for a long weekend. It was holiday in Tel Aviv so we decided to treat the kids to a little bit of Milanese life. My kids hadn’t been here for over two years, and neither had I.