Roghudi Vecchio, Calabria
High above the Amendolea River, I looked down on the empty lanes of Roghudi, once full of mule hooves and voices.
The streets were silent. Roofs had caved in. Fig trees pushed through stone. The wind drifted up the valley, dry and sharp, carrying the smell of oleander.
At the top of the village, I passed the church and pushed the door open. Inside there was nothing, only a cross made of sticks leaning against the wall.
Hawks circled above the ruins.
For centuries, people here had spoken Grecanico.
A child’s shoe lay half buried in the dirt, cracked and stiff with age. The wind moved through the alleys, lifting small swirls of dust.
Mothers once tied ropes around children’s ankles near the ravines.
I kicked a stone. It rolled downhill, bouncing from rock to rock.
