Alessandro, Three Months Old, Madrid

Donna Pucciani

Some day, Alessandro, your mama will tell you stories of the great plague that attacked the earth the year you were born. Millions of people died around the world, so many that there was no place for the bodies, kept frozen in trucks meant for pizza.

Oh, my! Old people died because they were frail and getting ready to die anyway, though not yet! After that, mamas got sick, and their children were struck down on their way to school.

But you, Alessandro, were safe in the cradle of your daddy’s arm, or nestled at your mama’s breast, making little baby noises, burping obediently when patted on the back.

You slept soundly, dreaming of snow in Spain, or crossing an ocean to see your grandma who lives in the desert and your tia on the shores of Lake Michigan among the skyscrapers.

Don’t worry, Alessandro. It will finish, not suddenly, but drifting like waves on the sea in Alicante, out towards the sky, then in again. Angels will protect you, little one. They will come to you in the form of an injection.

Soon you will be old enough for the shot. Bite your lip, don’t cry. You will wear short pants, ready for school, having gone from baby to boy. At the doctor’s office, your brow will knit, like an old man’s. An ancient sage in a boyish body, you will think not of death but only how to say “hurt” in two languages. A needle and some serum will save you from plague but not from pain.