Water of Memory
This old house breathes with stories, its walls saturated with whispers of generations past. Countless souls have crossed its threshold, their footsteps echoing through time. Beside the room's door, marked with a simple cross, hangs the holy water vessel.
My late aunt's mother would always dip her finger into the ceramic bowl, tracing a gentle sign of the cross on her daughter's forehead before she rushed off to elementary school, pulling her close for one last embrace. But children are always in a hurry, and my aunt was no exception. That day, she darted out quickly, her mind filled with childhood thoughts and anticipations.
When she returned home at midday, her mother had passed away.
She carried this moment with her entire life - the regret of not holding her mother just a moment longer. Whenever I look at the holy water vessel, her story resurfaces, a delicate memory etched into the fabric of our family's history.
Today, as my own daughter was about to leave, she suddenly turned back. With a familiar gesture, she reached for the holy water, traced a quick sign on her forehead, and pulled me into a tight, unexpected embrace.
(I cannot recall ever telling her this story.)
And yet, she carries her great-aunt's name within her own. Maybe a silent thread connecting generations, remembrance passed down through blood and love.
