I have been dying to write another post for several days now, and have tried several times to rework one around the basic idea that "my imagination is freer when I am abroad because I am more stimulated and have more time to give over to to wandering thoughts." But every attempt went from smart and inventive to bland and boring very quickly. One attempt opened with blatant stereotypes of every nationality I have been exposed to for any length of time; that's probably a bad idea even with only six readers. It was at least interesting though!

So instead I am throwing down the gauntlet to myself, and perhaps to a lesser extent one or two of my readers after our conversation on Saturday. The most mundane occurence two weeks ago fired my imagination. I came up with a wonderful idea for a short story. It is still in its embryonic stages however, and so I'm going to offer up one of my favorite stories that I have written in the hope that people will read it. It's all of 700 words, so not too much time. (If tomorrow morning I have zero followers I will know I have to start from scratch with an alias). But hopefully this is the first of... let's say some.

The village of Cantiano in Italy is bordered by the Tecchie forest. An ancient Roman road becomes a well trodden path west of the village. After less than a kilometre, the road is covered by the shade of imposing beech and ash trees. The road runs straight into the forest. White truffles grow in the damps. Eagles and peregrine falcons flit across the sky, almost invisible. Gnarled roots sprawl and interweave as the road becomes a path and progressively more labyrinthine. Then it bursts into a picturesque meadow full of violets, primroses, buttercups and narcissus in full bloom.

The meadow is the sort of place to sleep away an afternoon after a picnic. I used to do just that rather often, years ago, with Monica. She knew what sort of wild mushrooms were edible and the perfect Verdicchio wine to drink with them. We used to lay in the sunshine, sometimes sleeping, sometimes reading to one another. We walked more often after she got sick, until she didn’t have the strength to go anymore. After she died, I did not go back to that field for a long time.

Today the road seems longer, and somehow colder, than I remember it being on past July mornings. Resting myself against a knotty old tree, I feel a reassuring hand under my arm. After a moment I slowly raise my gaze to Stefi’s deep brown eyes. Looking at her brings a momentary gasp. Every inch her mother’s daughter, she is long and lithe, almost a silhouette. But it is her eyes that flood me with memories. Not just picnics and lazy Sundays, but Capri, Budapest, Buenos Aires.

“Come on, papa. It’s not that much farther. Or was this exercise regimen you bragged about a lie?” She smiles and pulls me along.

“No lie. But I have been easing myself into it, just building my strength slowly.” Six months on, and I still drive for my morning coffee and newspaper. Stefi laughs, an almost childish giggle as she mentions she stopped to see Stephano before continuing home. “All it took was one smile from you and that old man told you- didn’t he?”

“A kiss on each cheek in exchange for the priceless advice to check your odometer.” Stefi locked her arm in mine and pointed ahead to a tiny patch of green visible. “We are almost there. I remember…”

I remember as well. Monica and I walking hand in hand, Stefi singing and running barefoot among the grass and flowers. I remember purple and red, yellow and white. And suddenly, in the painfully bright sunshine, it is not a memory but a canvas spread in front of me. Stefi unhooks her arm and is a girl again, somehow moving through the flowers without disturbing them. A memory, one specific memory, crushes me to the overgrown grass. It is my own voice, many years ago. It is her favourite poem. It is the past and the present interwoven, a grown woman and a little girl, a young father and an old man. Though much is taken, much abides. Warm tears slide down my cheek.