Day 100: Bassano del Grappa

How you end is how you begin.

I don't know why it's hard. Because it's an edge? Because it's unyielding? I do know this: The lines exist, between the coming and the going, the starting and the finishing.

The lines lace the backbone of the thing, laying the tracks. There's a finality to their thud. You think the ending can't be changed, but then you go back over them. Again and again. And the lines take shape. And the shape holds the dream. And it's real, after all.


Day 99: Bassano del Grappa

We put our commerce in skyscrapers but heartbeats in the ground. Prized things are placed in the earth. Precious things grow from it, too. 

The dirt is the dust that makes us thankful. Makes us human and whole, like the cycle is completed. Wiping a mushroom clean, the way it gives between your fingers. Sliced thick and tossed with cheese.

Caneva. It translates to: cellar.


Day 98: Rosà

Canvas cactus-covered walls. Where they turned out the lights as they sang happy birthday, carrying a little dish topped with a single candle. A speck of light all the eyes follow. 

Me, I turned back in my seat and eyed the guacamole. Casually breaking off a chip, tapping the edge with a finger. What's the socially-acceptable limit a corner can hold?


Day 97: Bassano del Grappa

Every morning I sit here and watch. I used to be annoyed by that construction crane. It marred the view, a little too new for what I wanted to see.

But now it almost makes me cry. I remember when the house was a rubble of bricks. It was open on top. Zero defense from the rain. I've watched them add the roof. Fit the panels. Drill the sides and smooth out the edges. I can tell, by how the men are dressed, if it's extra cold outside or suddenly surprisingly warm. When it's quiet, I know they're off for lunch. I've met the dog that keeps guard at night. Maybe one day, I'll know who lives inside.


Day 96: Piazzola sul Brenta

Here, time hung everywhere. The fog spread it through the trees. There were dangling crystals and mirrors that caught the sun, old newspapers and radios so interesting you wished they still worked -- pushing out their hidden worlds through felted screens and tiny wires. Paintings of madonna with child. Frames everywhere. Everywhere a frame.

I sighed a lot. What will they find from us?


Day 95: Bassano del Grappa

How to define the quiet streets you've never seen before and may never see again. A small cafe, waiting on the corner and filled inside with curiosities.

They served a tiny chocolate with my macchiato -- we were just talking about this. I plopped it in, watching the milky foam absorb it slowly, like a barge sinking to the deep. I'd like to melt like that. Sans fanfare. Luxurious velvet. My particles slowly swimming farther and farther apart, until I'm a just a sweet swirl.


Day 94: Bassano del Grappa

Simple things. Left unattended for just the right amount of time. There's a rhythm to the way one goes and one comes. A clink, or two, above the low murmur of voices. 

You need to eat it while it's hot. While it's right in front of you with the shiny oil on the cheese. It'll be slippery and messy; that's fine. This is life. Lick the salt from your lips and crinkle the napkin in your hand. Go back for another bite.


Day 91: Bassano del Grappa

Today it was the other side of the river. We walked where the sand dipped into the reeds. The water was clear and bubbling. (On this side you could hear it better.)

I didn't bring my phone. I left it tucked in the couch cushion. I wanted empty pockets and focused eyes. To really see the mountain's carves. To notice which branches were broken. The hidden vineyards spotted through fence holes and to find the animal that made the rustle in the leaves. The sunlight appeared in freckles along the way.

The path was narrow, but I discovered so much room there.