Italian memory

 Dancing in the early morning before the century mark hits for heat. In a lime green chiffon number that covers the ankles as I sway unaware of all my problems. The weeds don’t bother me. My phone plays the sweetest melodies as Luke Bryan serenades me. I’m so proud to call this piece of dirt, mud and grass mine. It’s my blessing. One that I look out the window and marvel at everyday. God’s given me a place to call my own. A place that gives me more than I give it. I ride the UTV down to the pond and throw some food to the fishies and watch them scatter. 

I sit on the pier. Watching my dog jump in the water, and I pop open a can of pop, and proceed to drown my worries away. I now contemplate writing, but that can wait. Right now, I enjoy what I see. I see the dog swimming, and I join him. My body is weightless in water. I revel in the sensation. Letting silence be my companion. Wading in the water is my only job right now. No multitasking here. No wifi here either. The only rule is to have fun. It’s something I usually schedule. That’s a sad, yet honest truth. 

Climbing out of the water. Drying off. Laying the towel down to lay out and reapply some Supergoop. Taking a nap in the summer sun. Letting nature be my blanket. And what a blanket it is. Thank you Lord for my little slice of paradise. I ride back up to the house. I get some water, go to the shower and get lost in the hot spray. The shower is my indoor sanctuary. A little raspberry body wash, and I’m dreaming of a little gelato from my favorite little shop. A shop that reminds me of a February day in Northern Italy two decades ago. Taking myself down memory lane. And what a memory it is. As real now as it was then.