Rome to Florence

As we left Rome, the sky broke free in a shattering of rain. The scum of Rome cleansed from our shoes, our minds, we move on. This life a constellation of moments, some supernovas, some simply stars, each nonetheless with a name, together creating a sum greater than its parts.

We have passed a field of dead sunflowers, their heads bowing in honor of our passing. Eucalyptus trees bend under the force of the wind. The clouds are glaciers, immobile, frozen, sharp. We are here, and what of it? To contribute or waste life.

Vines of grapes extend their tendrils like scarecrows on the post. More sunflowers. Their heads burnt in the scorching son, their spines broken, at peace, no longer reaching to the heavens, no longer a lion's mane of petals, they too have moved on.

Cornrows contrast piles of gravel. Agriculture and industry clash, a battle not yet won. In the distance a castle hangs on the edge of a cliff. Its foundation eroded, cut chipped away, another glimpse of an end.

And then we pass fields upon fields of baby sunflowers only beginning their journeys. Fresh, uncertain of what's to come.

Venice, oh Venice!

I bought a ring today and told myself I was married to Venice. The city is a maze of streets, a labyrinth of alleys. Tony and I were lost, and then Fabrizio found us. Funny this life. From one moment to the next, the course of your life can change.

Bologna to Venice

Cruising through the Padova countryside, I realize the blessing that is my life. Neither devastated by death or war, not racked with poverty or famine, I have lived. Is it my duty to witness such difficulty but never undergo such strife? Or perhaps my course is to see the beauty in all creatures, the nobility of those whose lives have left them less fortunate.

The sky various shades of gray and white, then a random burst of blue. The countryside is under development. Yellow cranes and large chunks of broken cement line the tracks. A cathedral peeks over trees per town and every so often passes a small football stadium.

Mustard yellow houses with terracotta tile roofs round out communities. A scrap metal yard behind someone's home, the Italian countryside is not so different from rural Georgia. Fiats instead of pick-ups.