Glasses clink. Breadsticks, oven-ready, dip in honey apple jam. Air is crunchy with butter. Garden tomatoes, half-moon figs, maracuja on fish, aperitivos bellisimos. Bring over the tagliere, brown hair bejeweled with sea salt, flowers spill at the hem of his jeans.
*
The future rests on a tiny experiment: something not seen before, something unheard of. See that ant? It crawls onto my plate this morning, followed by a trail of littler ones. They found a giant butter knife with nothing on it, next to an open-heart blueberry. Sant'Antonio dalla barba bianca, fammi trovare quello che mi manca.* We seem to have had it, just not sure if we knew.
* Saint Anthony with the white beard, help me find what I'm missing. A traditional prayer to the patron saint of lost things in Catholic tradition.
Thank you, Gaia, for teaching me the prayer when I thought I had lost my passport on the day of departure.
My heart is so full,
Erica x
