I am here, I think. It is really Italy below me. I am not watching a movie in my parents’ den or on the couch at Culver. This is not a soundtrack or a photograph. It is real life. Most places in the world I have never touched, never met. But I am here now. It is something. It is a start. I inhale the fresh air, this place that seems to be dripping in summer. There is so much beauty here; she was right. I go back inside. I shower. I unpack everything right away, my mother’s daughter, and then I wander out onto the terrace again. I sit down on a lounger and tuck my feet underneath me. All around
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