The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany

by Lori Nelson Spielman

“Never underestimate the blueprint for a dream,”

“According to Dar,” I say, rinsing my cup, “the book club’s main objective is eating, followed by drinking and talking. If they find time, they discuss the book.”

“Please, my dear girl, avoid saying no so quickly. You’ll find life is much more interesting when you learn to say ‘It’s possible.’”

“Life is better measured in friendships than years, don’t you think?”

“It’s okay, Emilia. You see, I adore crazy people. Those who are crazy to explore. Crazy to laugh. Crazy to create. The ones who embrace broken bones and broken hearts, who risk failure and welcome surprises. I suspect you’re one of these people.”

“Do me one favor, please? Stop apologizing when you’re not sorry.”

“My sister treated love like a possession,” Poppy says, pouring the last drops of gin from the shaker. “To me, love is more like a lending library. To keep it, we must continually renew it. Otherwise we pay a hefty fine.”

“She’s afraid she might lose this new boyfriend if she’s away from him?” “Exactly.” “How positively dreadful, allowing someone such power.”

“Tell me,” Poppy says, looking from Lucy to me. “When was it that you stopped believing in magic?”

“Airports are such fun, don’t you think, Luciana?” “Second only to Brazilian waxing,”

LMAOOOO

“I was a plain child. But you see, planted in the right spot, we blossom. You’ll find it happens to you, too, once you find your home.”

“What if, after nearly thirty years of life, you discover you’ve been planted in the wrong place?”

“That which brings us joy should never be besmirched.”

“That little fucker.” She slaps her mouth, as if she, too, is surprised by the word. “Pardon me,” she says, “but there are times when no other noun will suffice.”

“It’s time we found you someone with a more interesting description.” She smacks her lips. “I’m thinking someone cerebral. A dreamer . . . a lover of books. Someone with a sharp mind and a firm rear end.”

Where is he?!

“Hiraeth!” Poppy cries, and claps her hands. “Do you know this Welsh word? It’s a feeling not easily translated into words. A deep longing for home, a nostalgia—a yearning—for the place that calls to your soul.”

“Oh, heavens yes! Though not in the conventional way I was taught. To me, spirituality is less about Sunday mass than it is about love. It’s that simple. When you treat others with love, consistently and fully, you honor your god or goddess. Some of the holiest people I know have never stepped foot in a church. And I’ve met many churchgoing, self-righteous born-again Christians that God himself probably wishes had never been born the first time.”

“La vita bella,” she says and lifts her drink. “The beautiful life.”

No doubt they’re speaking languages from all over the world, each carrying secrets and scars, unspeakable tragedies and moments of bliss.

I’m not a prisoner—or at least I don’t have to be. I can roam freely, travel broadly, make mistakes, welcome adventures.

“Beauty is overrated. I’d choose interesting over beautiful any day.”

“I’ve found life much sweeter when I choose to believe the best of others, rather than the worst.”

We ignore what our heart tells us when we think it could make someone love us.

:(

“Love. Forgive. Love again. Forgive again. That, my dear girl, is the circle of love.”

there are no words when one has witnessed magic.

Sometimes it’s our mind we ignore when we think we could make someone love us.

“I suppose I should welcome you to the Laid and Played Club.”

May you be strong as the redwood when troubles arise, and bend like the willow when forgiveness beckons.

I’ve heard of people who enter a place—a big city or small town, an old castle or a lakeside cabin—and feel as if they’d returned home, following a long and lonely journey. Poppy called it hiraeth, a yearning for a place, a home, one you might never have realized you were missing.

We chose love. PF & EK

But I do know she has hope. And that makes all the difference.

“In the end, life is a simple equation. Each time you love—be it a man or a child, a cat or a horse—you add color to this world. When you fail to love, you erase color.” She smiles. “Love, in any of its forms, is what takes this journey from a bleak black-and-white pencil sketch to a magnificent oil painting.”

“Remember to spread your sunshine. Never underestimate the importance of your light to someone living in a bank of clouds.”