Roghudi Vecchio, Calabria

High above the Amendolea River, I look down on the empty lanes of Roghudi, once full of mule hooves and voices.

Now the streets are silent. Roofs have caved in. Fig trees push through stone. The wind drifts up the valley, dry and sharp, carrying the scent of oleander.

At the top of the village, I pass the church and push open the door. Inside, there is nothing—only a cross made of sticks leaning against the wall.

Hawks circle above the ruins.
I don’t know what they expect to find.

For centuries, people here spoke Grecanico, a language that faded as the village emptied.
In 1971, the river rose and swept away the fields, the doors, and every reason to stay.

A child’s shoe lies half-buried in the dirt, cracked and stiff with age. The wind moves through the alleys, lifting small swirls of dust.

I read that mothers tied ropes around their children’s ankles to keep them from falling into the ravines.
I kick a stone. It rolls downhill, bouncing from rock to rock.