Z for Zelmira

We met playing cards. The gaze of a ninety-year-old, though, went well beyond appearances.

Zelmira — or rather Zel, as I had nicknamed her — a name certainly not common; it is the title of an opera by Rossini.

We met playing cards: at the time we had a little group of people we managed to get playing scala quaranta and briscola.

One day she confided that at first she did not particularly like me — she thought I was too brash and that I cheated at cards by tipping off the other residents. But, despite the start, a fine bond quickly formed. Zel did not have an easy life: widowed young, she had to raise her son alone, in a setting like post-war Italy that was hardly favourable to women.

She was not the only one telling me about her life: with her I had managed to open up and share part of my own experiences. To Zel I spoke about my girlfriend, someone to whom I had devoted a great deal of time and whom I loved. One day I had managed to bring her to the care home and introduce her. Contrary to those who told me we were a beautiful couple, Zel was the only one who advised me to leave her and find someone better suited to me. Another resident and I would tease her and say: “what are you saying, Zelmira? You mustn’t say such things!!!”.