ITALIAN LULLABY by CONNIE FRANCIS. Story by Lucia Nardo.

Altona, Victoria. About ten years ago.

Since my father’s passing in November 2021, I don’t speak Italian every day and I fear losing the language. I use an app for practice and regularly listen to a catalogue of Italian songs. In this way, not only do I migliorare il mio italiano, but the music casts me back to happy childhood memories I shared with my late parents, and memories of my sons’ childhoods.

Recently, the sweet, pure voice of Connie Francis singing Italian Lullaby hurtled me back, not just to those times, but to an encounter in a café that spoke to me tenderly of parenthood.

That morning, the café bustled. I found a spot and ordered coffee. Nearby, a mum sat with a child who looked about four, and a newborn in her arms. I mused on my two sons at those ages. They’ve grown into hulking great men, their childhoods slipping further into the past with every passing day. Still, I remember their many ‘firsts’: the first time they walked, called me mum, the first time they raised a spoon to their mouths alone. A pang too, remembering the ‘lasts’, most heartbreaking, the last time I could physically pick them up. That fragment of loss had always stayed with me. I swallowed back a lump.

I sipped my coffee to the café’s sounds and tried not to look at the mother and her kids in case I gave way to tears.

‘Careful, Dad!’ a woman said, voice full of urgency.

An elderly man, white wispy hair, hands covered in age spots, lowered himself onto a chair his daughter pulled out from a table. He let out an ‘Ooofff’ as he landed on the seat, closing his eyes with the effort. Another woman arrived, pecked the old man on the cheek. ‘Hi Dad. Sorry I’m late.’ While they waited for their order, the sisters engaged in animated conversation – something about Melbourne’s traffic and weather.

The old man sat unperturbed at being ignored. His eyes were ringed red, and the skin underneath sagged. He absentmindedly scratched his ear.

The baby on the other side of the café began to wail. The mother lifted the child to her shoulder, patting the bub’s back, but the fuss continued.

The old man watched the child and half smiled. The younger daughter rolled her eyes. ‘I wish people would keep control of their kids. How can we talk with that racket?’ She shot a look at the mother who was hastily strapping the wailing bub into a stroller. She navigated through the café, exiting hurriedly, the older child chattering as he followed.

‘That’s better,’ said the daughter. ‘Glad I don’t have kids!’

I was wondering if she remembered she’d been one herself, when she said, ‘We weren’t like that, were we, Dad?’

‘All the time,’ he said softly, a faraway look in his eyes.

The daughter sniffed and turned back to her sister, leaving the old man with his thoughts.

As if feeling my gaze on him, he looked directly at me, tears welling. ‘I miss it.’

I nod in understanding. His daughters continued to talk between themselves.

They’d missed the moment. The deep resonance of parenting, aging, and loss.

Later, I rang my elder son. ‘Do you know how much I love you?’

‘Ma, what’s wrong? Are you sick or something?’

‘I’m fine. Just wanted to tell you.’ I had a similar conversation with my younger son who also thought I’d lost the plot.

As I went about the rest of my day, the memory of the old man shadowed me. A sense of longing pulled me into my boys’ old bedrooms. I imagined them there, laughing together — raucous, teasing, banter — noise levels that had boomed through the house from when they’d been babes in arms. My favourite sound.

The sense of longing settled at my centre.

The old man was right. I miss it.

Back in the present, I wrap myself in the warmth of those memories, and return to Italian Lullaby and as the lyrics suggest, I let my sons rest on my heart where I watch over them.

Stereo Story #768