Sunday, March 8, 2015


Rome on lazy Sundays reminds me of mother. The languid elegance, slowly melting over multiple layers of times gone by. I haven't spoken to her in months, sometimes I think I've forgotten what she looks like.

And my sweet, innocent Stephanie. It took her 15 years to realize that her family wasn't like most others. Us watching The Godfather in her room, drinking Anisette in our black bikinis when suddenly she stops in a cat-like movement. "My sister had a wedding just like that" she says. "They live in Sicily now, her husband owns a shipping company".

She loves her father but never asks about mine. "He's coming to visit soon" she says, "will you stay?" I remember the first time I met him, his pinstripe suit and subtle Armani cologne. He asked me to look after his daughter because she had chosen me to be her friend and I promised him that I always would.

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