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Summary
Lucio had a mother, once. A long time ago. There was no money for heat, but she would fill a basin with cold dark water from the canal and empty it over his head in one great rush, like the tide beating rock. His hair would stick to his face every time, a gray curtain, and she would peel it out of his eyes before rushing to kiss his round face as if apologizing.
Sometimes, when it’s very late and no one’s awake, Lucio will carefully extricate that memory from the back cupboards of his mind and roll it around in the dark. Like a pearl. The only thing that’s ever really his.
Lately the sound and smell of her have both begun to fade. To tell the truth, Lucio is no longer sure if that memory - her washing his hair, her holding him, the nymphlike shine of her face in the dark - actually happened.
Lucio's been in the business of breaking promises to himself, lately.