Za Teresa was one of those women who seemed to come from another time. A village matriarch — proud, grounded, with a firm gaze and the heavy step of someone who had never just walked the land, but loved it, worked it, and deeply respected it.

She became a widow at a very young age — her first husband, who left in uniform for the First World War, never came back. But she didn’t let grief consume her. She carried her mourning quietly, like a scar beneath her apron. Life, after all, goes on. And so, after some years, she married my great-grandfather. It wasn’t the same passionate love as the first, but a solid bond built on respect, partnership, and two pairs of hands that knew how to work together. Together, they ran the farm, raised children and grandchildren, and preserved traditions and values like a candle shielded from the wind.

Za Teresa had a visceral bond with her olive trees. She treated them like living, almost sacred beings. She used to say, “Olive trees listen to you, if you treat them right.” And treat them right she did. Her days began at dawn and ended with the sun low in the sky, her hands always dusted with soil and the scent of leaves lingering in the air. The oil she produced — deep green, thick, fragrant — wasn’t just good: it was liquid memory. Every drop told a story of life, of seasons, of patience.

But more than the oil, her true treasure was the knowledge she carried. Ancient rural wisdom, recipes passed down by word of mouth, ways of doing things that today are nearly lost. She knew how to heal with herbs, how to prepare preserves that lasted the whole year, and she taught that time is not to be controlled — it is to be respected. At the table, she told stories that sounded like fairy tales, but they were real: tales of wars, harvests, love, and storms.

Za Teresa also raised me, until I was eleven. I grew up under her watchful eye, with the sound of cicadas in the air and the quiet music of barrels slowly fermenting. She taught me what it means to belong — to a place, to a history. She passed on to me her care for the land, the value of a given word, and the deep meaning of honest work.

Today, every time I walk among the olive trees, I still hear her voice. When the oil pours slowly from the bottle, I can almost see her there, sitting under the pergola, with a scarf on her head and her strong hands resting in her lap. And I understand that Za Teresa never truly left. She lives on in me — in the gestures I repeat, in the values I carry forward, and in every sip of oil that tells — always and forever — her story.