When friends asked about our trip to Italy, I spoke only about Supino, a village of perhaps 1,000 people, without a cinema, restaurant, theatre. Not even a bocce court.

I knew from Rocco's descriptions that every day the old men gather at the piazza beside the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore to read the newspaper, drink small cups of strong black coffee, argue politics and soccer. As the months passed, and the sun grew weaker, the length of the buildings' shadows grew longer and the old men moved down the steep hill to the square in front of San Sebastiano to continue their conversations. The villagers still walked up the cobblestone street each day to collect cold spring water from the fountain at the base of the mountain. The stream passed underground, heading down Via Condotto Vecchio to the corner at Via D'Italia where neighbours stood on summer evenings in the path of the cooling breeze. Fresca. On the outskirts of town, families built sprawling pastel-coloured villas with arches and elaborate wrought-iron fences.

In the corners stood the original structures of their parents' homes. It is Supino law that you can build on, but you cannot tear down, existing buildings, so every
new Supinese home is technically an addition to an existing one. The new home represented the villagers' prosperity while also acknowledging their origins.
'Success built with humility.' Rocco had told me all of this while we waited at Leonardo da Vinci Airport for our return flight.

Supino was almost medieval, a village stopped in time. Unreal. I framed the photo of my father's home and put it on the mantle next to the piece of rock I had
taken from its foundation. In quiet moments, just before I fell asleep, I thought I could hear Supino calling me. The cool wind that came down from the Santa Serena, used my Italian name: Maria. I thought of myself as Canadian. I'd always said, 'my father came from Italy, but I was born here.' Since I'd been to Supino, I felt differently. My father came by himself in February 1927. He was almost 19. The day he had left Supino was the last time he saw his parents. His father had said to him, 'Don't forget. Send money.' His mother said nothing. She just cried. When the Marloch docked in Sydney, Nova Scotia and my father disembarked it was the first time he had seen snow. And it was cold. He had on only a woollen jacket, with a passport and three dollars in his pocket. He didn't speak any English. My father took the train from Halifax to Union Station in Toronto where Regina met him. My father lived with my aunt Regina and uncle Lawrence in their house on Dundas Avenue. It had a fruit and vegetable store in the living room and a bicycle in the shed out the back.