Notes from Florence - 2018
In the part of Azelio, a teacher calls to her children. If we were in the U.S., she's ask them to say
"cheese." But here, where cheese is beloved, she asks for a "soriso," a smile like a sunrise.
So many of her pupils are Asian, I comment. She answers, "Chinese" Nearby a new mother coos to her baby, encourages, "Say 'Papa,' say 'Mama.'" A merli like our American robin except all black, flies across the path, its chirrup like the robin I left at home, perching on our birdbath filling up with snow.
Who belongs where anymore? I name one of the few Italian trees I remember, "tilio," much like our North American bassrood with its heart-shaped leaves. Nearby a man with bronze skin leans over his knees as if sick. Should I offer him part of my sandwich? So much known and unknown. A man with pale skin rides a bicycle through the shade, his tailored coattails flapping. As I approach the slumped man, he sits up, pulls a ringing cell phone from his pocket, andputs it to his ear.
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