At the foot of Etna, where the earth is dark and the broom flowers smell of sun, there lived a little girl named Irene.
Every evening she looked at the mountain from her window. Sometimes she saw a cloud on the summit and thought Etna was wearing a hat. At other times the peak was clear and looked like a great shoulder against the sky.
One night Irene could not sleep. She had run, talked, drawn, argued a little, made peace, and helped in the kitchen. She was tired, but her body did not want to stop.
She opened the window.
“Mountain, do you get tired too?”
For a moment nothing happened. Then a deep sigh came from the summit.
“Of course,” said Etna. “I carry trees, stones, paths, snow, wind, and all the eyes of those who look at me.”
Irene sat down.
“And how do you rest?”
Low clouds descended from the sky, soft and pearl-grey. One after another, they settled on the slopes, covering the mountain like a large wool blanket.
“Like this,” said Etna.
Irene smiled. The mountain had not disappeared. It had only allowed itself to be covered for a while.
“I keep moving when I am tired.”
“Then sleep cannot find a place,” replied the mountain.
Irene took her blanket from the bed and put it around her shoulders. It was not as big as Etna’s, but it was enough.
She sat quietly and breathed.
A tiny cloud detached itself from the summit and came to the window. It was as small as a pillow. Irene watched it settle on the sill and melt into a fresh drop.
She touched it with one finger.
“Good night,” she said to the mountain.
Then she returned to bed. This time she did not try to force herself to sleep. She allowed herself to be covered. She felt the good weight of the blanket, her breath slowing, her thoughts becoming clouds.
The next morning Etna was clear again against the sky.
Irene understood that it had rested without ceasing to be a mountain.
From then on, when she was tired, she no longer said, “I must resist.” She said, “I need a blanket of clouds.”
And she gave herself permission to stop.