My mother’s Mediterranean eyes filled with tears. br ‘Madre mia e morta! ’ she cried, as my older sister br stumbled over crude Italian letters. br br Our tenement flat became a narrow br room that day; dirges reigned br in place of opera as falsetto turned to alto. br br I’ll never know how long it took to bring her back: br a day in May, when flowers bloomed br or a night in June while crickets sang.