Plum bodies so fragrant, they make me cry and here I am, tearing over tomatoes, jetlagged, lagging, delaying everything, with at least three churches in view. We’re surrounded by time and god. It makes children of all of us. And I am not a stupid child. Before I left, I gathered my breath and for what? Some grand gesture. No. We keep our heads down. We study the feet of medieval saints. We make small talk against the big year of our absence from each other.
