I remember when I was a child:
uncle Rosario, aunt Mary, uncle Carlo, uncle Turiddu, aunt Rosa, uncle Pino.
All left for America. Massachussets, near Boston. Gloucester.
Camporeale, like many towns in Sicily, is familiar with the verb to leave.
We left yesterday. Others leave today.
One leaves for work, for luck, to seek peace, for love.
To give children one more chance.
It has always been like this.
It will be again.