Cospargere di lacrime

September 28, 2009

Images can touch you in ways you never expect. Ways that sneak up on you and access memories long buried.

This wreath sits on the wall outside the room in which I’m sitting. I know it’s in Italy.

Yet it speaks to me of other things.

Of a trip to Santa Fe, the weather crisp and cold, the sky clear blue, and roasted chilis in the trunk of the car. The hot aroma stifled usin the small car. Buying milagros and Southwestern kitsch. The warm camaraderie of a good friend, now just a shadow flitting in and out of my consciousness.

And another visit to Santa Fe, with snow and too much cowboy art. A fire in the kiva and silly conversation in shops

Of Christmases in California. Red velvet cupcakes and piles of wrapped presents at the beach. Sitting in the window seat of a cozy cottage drinking strong coffee. A walk.

And other Christmases with three generations of friends, all about masses of food and wine and children, all the children. And then they had children and it was about their children, making tangible the circle of life

A wreath in Italy.

And so much more.

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