Young and Wild and Sweet

This morning I sit in the pale peach kitchen of my great grandmother, sipping coffee, waiting for the day to begin. Waiting for the market to make its way up the mountain and for the beating sun to fly over rooftops. Waiting for footsteps to trickle down the street, for the figs to ripen outside my bedroom window — it all happens so suddenly. 

Last night I took a motorcycle ride through the mountains as the sun was setting and I swear it changed everything in me. I feel new in my body and my writing and the way I see the cliffs that I am calling home for the next few months. The cliffs that witnessed the birth of my mother in the yellow apartment in Piazza Roma. The mountains that heard her first cry of life. The mountains that raised the women who raised me. My mother and her sisters came to us full of mystery, differences and a deep love for each of us. In our homes, there always music, always singing, always dancing. I was held by their dialectic whispers, nourished by their spoons overflowing with olive oil. I took the greatest pride in being sent out into the garden to clip basil or mint for our lunch. I hope every child in our family knows how rare and sacred it is to be loved so much. I hope children who are loved can lend their wing as a bridge to help to those who were not.

Tomorrow is the birthday of my god daughter, Penelope. The youngest, wildest, and sweetest girl in our family. She is the only person I’ve seen come into this world with my own eyes. That day was another that rearranged everything I’ve ever known. In these moments, I feel a part of my life disintegrate into the air. It is my joy to let parts of me go — I am a lover of leaving behind what is no longer mine to hold. But there are some things I wish to always keep: my faith in love, my depth of understanding and an endless return to these mountains.