You still wake up mornings incredulous.
The summer of my fortieth year was my first summer. Not really. But it was the first summer that felt, barring unforeseen circumstances, tocca ferro and palle-if-I-had-them, scaramantica, starthirst, and blackswallow, like this might maybe, maybe, last.
You still cross the river with wonder.
One weekend we watched wisteria in Villa Bardini. One weekend we voyeured into every private garden in our neighborhood. One weekend we made my mother's chicken ginger for the only person in this country who has known me longer than my cat.
Every time you open a window, winglike onto the street, you think of the word spalancare. Something for the body. Something for the soul.
How am I allowed to have this?
[Santo Spirito, Firenze]
[martedė 13 giugno 2017 ore 09:50:11] [¶]