White bliss

When I was a little girl I could not wait to have my first holy comunion. Not for the ceremony itself, of course, and certainly not for the meaning of the holy bread - the "particula" - turning into God himself. No, no. How could a nine year old  care about those trifles that so much concerned mothers and aunts? No, no. The only reason why I yearned to taste the body of Christ was that  I would wear, for the occasion, the long white dress,  that my older sister had on many years before and that waited, paitently, in its plastic coat, for me to turn into a newborn christian.It hung quietly in a wardrobe of my mother's closet, counting the hours for its ribirth....
The day arrived at last, as sunny as my beautiful dress that tolled its new beginning, and I stood, as white as snow, in the middle of my schoolfriends first and in the big, green  Ponti garden soon after. All around me, cousins and aunts and friends. The afternoon washed away, and so did my enthusiasm for the white dress. Now that I was wearing it, I found it had no sugar nor spice nor anything nice...

All of a sudden, my memory switches on and I run backwards to another sunny day, that of my older sister's holy comunion when little me, dressed in a pale blue skirt and flowery blouse, had eyes and heart for my white tulle beauty, gleaming in the sun.  The dress seemed to smile  at me, singing one day I will be yours... Here I am, in a snap, standing on the cotto terrace, with my brothers end sister, models  for my father's pictures of the great day. Oh, the longing in my little keen eyes, oh, the bliss of the white fabric dream,  shining in the light, right there, beside me: the dream I cherished in my heart!  Now I know: Christmas  eves are far better than Christmas days!