Blue Thistles at the Window

When I was a child, my father accompanied me to collect thistles on the mountain pastures of Monte Baldo, just under 50 km northwest of Verona, where my mother had lived until her marriage. Mother had been ill since before I was born, she had trouble walking, so she was waiting for us at home and when we came back laden with thistles, she cut them up and put them in glass jars to dry.

Now that mom, dad and even the old mountain house are gone, I'm the only one alive to keep the memory of those thistles.
It is a painful burden to bear alone.