One Italian Summer

by Rebecca Serle

There is an edge to his voice, and I realize, not for the first time in the past few months, how unused to discomfort we both are. We do not know how to live a life that the bottom has fallen out of.

We made promises in a world lit with light. We do not know how to keep them in the darkness.

All around the light is golden and liquid and heavy, like it’s just beginning on its second glass of wine.