On a hillside in Sicily lived a little girl. She laughed in the sunlight and danced among the lemon trees, filled with fruit as big as pasta bowls. She grew up to be a vivacious and fearless woman. She came to America with four children. With her own two hands, she made things: men’s suits, soft crocheted blankets, and enough gnocci to feed a small village. We can still hear her laugh. And feel her enormous heart. Her name was Rosa—which means pink in Italian (and everything to my family, and me).