This is Mikili Galea. After the axis finally stopped dropping the bombs on Malta, he emerged from an underground shelter to marry the dashing Vittoria Sultana. Together they produced six babies. Boom. Just like that.My dad was one of them, born in a neighbourhood called Nazzarenu in 1946. He was named after the town he was born in; Reno for short. I’m glad my parents decided against Fontainbleu. Do I look like a Fontainblue to you?
At the age of 93 Nannu Mikili recalled stories from the war, told tales of my aunts and uncles growing up, and had a name for each of the dozen plus stray cats he feeds in his yard every day. He loves animals
He is 94 now. It has been only a year since I saw him last, yet he doesn’t remember my face or name. “I’m your favourite grand daughter from Canada,” I remind him “the one that always buys you the liquorice candies.” He digs into his trouser pockets, unbuttoned and secured instead by brown suspenders, and hands me a yellow and red coloured candy from his pocket. It’s his last.
I am tempted by the familiar smell of black liquorice as the cellophane wrapper is opened. But I insist he save the candy for later and promise to bring a bag full from the city market. Our conversation will dissolve from his recollection, but I will stay true to my word.
His memory is failing.
He is set free from the haunting memories of wartime, hunger and illness. But along goes the recollection of familiar faces, of neighbours and friends, and of the family he raised in Nazzarenu.
They say smell is the sense most strongly associated with memory.
I’m hoping the bag of liquorice candy I deliver hits a cerebral cord.
