Swallows, hundreds of them, patterned the morning sky. Natalia’s grandmother, her nonna, had always insisted they portended the future. While her floors were drying, Nonna would study their formations from the balcony, often with her granddaughter at her side. Depending on which direction they swooped, she’d make her predictions. If they veered north or west, it meant someone would come to harm. Maybe the neighbor who cheated her on a carton of eggs or the woman who stole away her first love. But if the birds winged south or east, Natalia would marry young and produce a brood of healthy children. After Nonna’s oracles flew off, Natalia got a large slice of homemade torte di cestagno and a warm glass of milk. The chestnuts were delivered from a childhood friend of her grandmother’s once or twice a year. Those not used for the baking were roasted and taken on picnics. Finishing her coffee, Natalia wondered whether she might have taken up divining signs, too, if she hadn’t won the university scholarship.
