The Tabarelli Girl

From when we leave the womb, said Freud (or Jung), until the day we die, life's one long try to climb back in. That cold air hits our lungs with such a shock, we cannot help but cry. Her name was Pina. She could twirl her skirt impressively. One evening, home alone, twirling her nylon nightdress, unalert, she caught the flames. That fireplace was a zone forbidden her, but how could she resist the warmth and light the gaping chasm offered? The fabric wrinkled, melted, shriveled, hissed and bunched between her thighs. She must have suffered. A young, bewildered altar boy back then, I watched her mother rage and rail and rave, unhinged by grief. It took six burly men to hold her back from leaping in the grave.