Rain. Days and nights of wet, thunder, fallen tree limbs. I don’t remember the rains being so long, so violent. Beautiful. Everything is green, lush, fed. Our floors are littered with tiny footprints of mud. Red rivers flow down our sloped front yard. It just keeps raining.
The butterfly exhibit at the Museum of Natural History did not fail to impress today. Again, the wonder children bring back into your life. I remember when I was younger I used to collapse under the sheer heaviness that we are on a planet spinning in space, fast. I would sit at a river’s edge and imagine dinosaurs walking through it and could not speak as my mouth filled with mystery and miracles.
Just thirty minutes of watching butterflies today and I am once again in awe, and feeling the tilt of the axis.
I am in love. Italy is now mine. It took a dark, edgy city to pull me in, and sink me. Naples is deep. It’s dirty. It’s sexy. It’s everything you think of when you think of Pacino, Deniro, men in dark suits whispering in corners. Sure, there is the Corso lined with expensive boutiques and monuments of stunning beauty, all perched upon hills that fall into an endless sea, but like an alley cat I staked the streets I was warned not to go. I leaned into the whispers and studied the faces distorted from not towing the line. I watched eyes watching mine and tried to catch the passion leaking from the sewers. My heart beat faster there. Even back in Rome it all looks new. I think we might be here for a while, caught, trapped. It runs in my blood. My heritage. I have come home.