A Vivere

This morning feels like Rome. Like the summer I lived there, waking early, as the haze on the city was just lifting—I would dress lightly, a tank top and a skirt and sandals, and I would hike the hill to the newsroom, soaking my back with sun-wet damp. I would arrive wanting to strip off my clothes but instead stand in front of a fan until the sweat turned chilly and then I would settle down between an overstuffed card cabinet and an ancient computer where the newswire ticked off at global-rotation speed.

I would get on my story—say, a fire in an upscale clothing store—and leaf through my dictionary until I had every word I may need in making calls to police and owners. Then I would call, feel pre-linguistic, stammer through a few questions and answers in Italian until my head felt jumpy, my chest full of rocks, hang up the phone, stare at the foreign words I had typed, wondering what the hell a “giachiatorianare” or whatever it was, was.

Today is New York, and it is not nearly that hot, but the haze is here, lifting minute-by-minute, and I am again in an office, this one my own, and I am not struggling in anything. Today is one of those days where words are mine to savor and arrange as I would flowers in a vase if I would only drop more money on those beautiful things. I would, right now, buy peonies.