21:51 PM
21:51 PM
#04. my photographs of my grandmother are in my bedroom, resting above shelves of my favorite things. the photographs are all i know of her, of her beauty and her powerful laughter, but it radiates from the polaroids of her smile like the sun. she stands tall, a beaming young italian woman with her husband and three children at her side. i am transfixed by these photos and find myself studying her, mia nonna, frequently.
#03. my mother once spoke of a canzone she learned to sing from my grandmother.
Ove non sei la luce manca,
Ove tu sei nasce l’amor
Metti-anche tu la veste bianca
eschiudi l’uscio al tuo cantor
Oveno sei la lu ce manca
Ove tu sei masce l’amor,
she sang to me quietly as i leaned back in the passenger seat of the gold sedan, staring blankly back at the ceiling, lost in thought.
#02. i remember vividly how it felt, standing under the towering fountains of villa d’este, in tivoli that summer. i thought to myself that day as i stood there, glistening with july sweat, that i would come back here, again and again, for the rest of my life. i would be married here. i would come here to think, to gain deeper understanding of myself. and this is the only way i know how to feel.
#01. pop music and clattering plates fill my ears at the cafe. in between college and the solitude of my tiny apartment, i spend my time here, rushing food in and out of the kitchen and brewing four different kinds of coffee. a man comes in with a wiggling bundle, and sits down at a table where a woman has been chattering on her cell phone for almost forty minutes. he kisses her cheek while i watch. she waves him off dismissively. the young father stares down at his bundle, his son, who reaches for his nose. he takes his tony fingers in his hand, and sings, Ove non sei la luce manca,
Ove tu sei nasce l’amor
Metti-anche tu la veste bianca,
eschiudi l’uscio al tuo cantor,
Oveno sei la luce manca,
Ove tu sei masce l’amor.
I stand in the dishroom, slowly dumping half-eaten sandwiches in the trash. I stand, so full of longing, that it takes root in me, and I feel deep cloudy sadness for weeks afterward.