Walls of shades of yellow and orange, ochre and umber. Dark green shutters always, the colour of the solemn tall trees. Light grey stone, dark grey cobbles scattered with cigarette butts. Prosecco before dinner watching the passeggiata.
Lizards skittering as I walk. Giant flakes peeling off slate paths. Dark, heavy wooden doors and windows that swing wide. Orange-tiled roofs, rippled, stacked, layer over layer on the hillside. Fountains. Passing cone-shaped peaks and looking down to straight Roman roads along the valleys.
The local shop with price stickers and no barcode scanners and a deli counter to die for, where you have to test your Italian to ask for a vague quantity of salami and cheese and prosciutto. Basta cosi. A real butcher’s counter with hunks of meat where the butcher can tell you if the pig was a boy or a girl. He probably knows its name and what it ate for breakfast. Thin dark leaves in among the peaches that still have this morning’s dew on them.
Olive groves and fields of girasoles. Fragrant lavender shortbread just out of the oven and geranium petals swimming delicately in pool water.
How can I tell which moments I’ll remember? Which moments my children will remember? What makes a memory? Is a photograph a memory-keeper, or does it change the memory to something else, something easier but not so real? Does it steal the soul of the memory? What can I do but write it and look at it and hope I lived it when it happened?