Italy is calling, a lighthearted flirting melody with a musical accent. She waves olive wood smoke under my nose and wine.
She calls with the sounds of leather soles on ancient stone streets and pigeons flushed to wing by children dashing through piazzas, arms waving, heads thrown back, eyes heavenward and voices released in joy.
I reach for the salami and olives in my fridge, like for a life ring; as I drift on waves of warm memories and the shoreline of tomorrow and working for a living commitments, fade from view…