Carolina is an elderly woman. She is a housewife, married, and has only one child. Her body bears the marks of years spent doing housework. Her memory is beginning to fail her: she is increasingly forgetful and confused. She is frightened. The doctor recommends that she write things down. Little pieces of paper are scattered everywhere, holding on to the memories that slip through her fingers. The only place she calls her own, which nourishes her memories, is the patio of her house, filled with flower pots, a lemon tree, and an avocado tree. But that place also seems to be falling apart.

An exquisite reconstruction of the customs and daily life of a village, in which archaic mandates, coming from the depths of an immigrant peasant Italy, are reflected in a suffocating existence.

From the purest subjectivity, Luciana De Luca paints a picture of undeniable objectivity. A powerful soliloquy that does not concede an inch to easy solutions; on the contrary, it gives shape and voice to a woman who cannot find a way to express herself in the dense web of obligations and postponements that make up her history and her life. Like so many other women.