Something So Small

The kitten

Has to make up to me

Before he sleeps.

I want to know

What he knows,

And you still don't.

XOXO

Nicholai la Citta, aged 3 months.

The kitten sits
In the chair
At the head of the table,
For all in the world
Like an expectant child.
It’s fitting,
As I say to him
At least every week,
“It’s you and me,
Kid,
For the next
Fifteen
To
Eighteen
Years of your life.”
He burbles back happily,
As if he understands,
And in that moment,
Listening absentmindedly to his chatter,
I catch a glimpse of what I would be like
As a mother,
If the unlikely were to ever occur:
Over-protective,
Impatient,
And devastatingly in love.

XOXO

Firenze Sempre

Those were
(Quelli erano)
The golden days.
(I giorni d'oro.)
The mornings where sunlight
(Il mattino dove la luce solare)
Looked like dust filtering through stagnant air
(Considerata come la polvere che filtra attraverso l'aria stagnante)
And
(E)
The heavy weight of jewels.
(Il peso pesante di gioielli.)
The evenings on the coast when warm breezes
(Le serate sulla costa quando brezze termiche)
Carried
(Eseguita)
The clean smell of
(L'odore di pulito)
Cacti
(Cacti)
And
(E)
Sea salt
(Sale marino)
On them.
(Su di essi.)
Monuments
(Monumenti)
Rose like memories in the piazzas,
(Crescere come ricordi nelle piazze,)
And
(E)
Buildings
(Edifici)
Loomed as tangible as the passing of time around them.
(Profilò tangibili come il passare del tempo intorno a loro.)
A back alley in Firenze
(Un vicolo in Firenze)
--Only the Italian names for places—
(-- Solo i nomi italiani per i posti--)
Via dello Studio.
(Via dello Studio.)
I am late on my way to a friend’s apartment,
(Sono in ritardo sul mio modo di appartamento di una amica,)
But walk
(Ma a piedi)
Slowly,
(Lentamente,)
Rewarded for my patience when,
(Premiato per la mia pazienza quando,)
Above me,
(Sopra di me,)
Piano
(Pianoforte)
And
(E)
A woman singing opera
(Una donna di canto lirico)
Erupt from open windows.
(Scoppiare dalle finestre aperte.)
I stop
(Mi fermo)
On the cobblestones
(Sul selciato)
And listen,
(E ascolta,)
Knowing this is a moment I will remember fondly
(Sapere questo è un momento mi ricorderò con affetto)
For the rest of my life.
(Per il resto della mia vita.)
Nothing has changed here
(Nulla è cambiato qui)
Since 1482.
(Dal 1482.)
I hope nothing changes
(Spero che non cambia nulla)
Upon my return—
(Al mio ritorno--)
A 20 year old shadow of me,
(A venti anni ombra vecchio di me,)
Left wandering the streets here,
(Sinistra per le strade qui,)

Forever,

(Sempre,)

With
(Con)
Part of my heart
(Parte del mio cuore.)

XOXO

"Andata In Gatta"-- The Cats Of Roma

"Andata in gatta" translates to "gone to the cats," an Italian euphemism for "three sheets to the wind," or "dead-drunk." Interesting.

Cats in Florence behave the way Victorian parents wished their children would: they are seen, but only from afar, and not heard. They appear, sleek, mild-mannered, aloof, on rooftops, and only turn to look at you when you call to them.

Roma cats capture my heart. The cats of Roma are straight natural-born hustlers. All missing tips of ears, some teeth, or some hair, nonetheless, they entertain tourists to literally eat from their palms. Scruffy, shameless, grubby-- they act the way cats are not supposed to behave. Mr. Mephistopheles would be appalled. I, however, am enthralled. They talk back. They demand more from you. They looks straight at you and demand more. These are not cats who pussy-foot around the subject. I admire them for this, for their sass and their ease at making demands; for their single-minded affection and independence. These are cats who love you and leave you. Maybe that's what attracts me to them-- the fact that I like to love and leave at will as well. But just like the cats, I also deeply need and crave the affection I get from my interactions. Just like the cats, I want a place to come home to, a hand to reach out and touch me, praise for surviving and thriving.

Maybe I emanate this need more than I'll ever know. But for whatever reason, the cats here seem to know it, and love me for it. They cock their heads and listen to me when I talk to them in the language that Julio Cortazar described as "somewhere between silly and mysterious, making dates with them, giving advice and admonitions (as she tickled their bellies)"-- the odd clicks of tongue on roof of mouth and soft whispers of hisses and kissing sounds. They let me hold them, climb willingly into my lap on their own accord to be closer, swarming in groups of 3s and 5s and 7s around me, milling under legs and between boots and rubbing against my knees. They blink slowly. They mew back. One-- my favorite-- a long-haired black male with a jaw off-set from once being broken, looking like a dashingly disfigured boxer, with blue eyes that startle when he turns and looks at you, nods at me. I don't even like cats, much. If you asked me, I would tell you definitively that I'm much more of a dog person. But these cats don't ask.

These Roma ruin cats just like me. Maybe it's because I'm more of a cat than a dog, myself, no matter how much I appreciate a good canine. Pleasing people just isn't in my repertoire-- I'd rather hide and sleep.

So it bothers me when one is aloof and scales a tree. He can't seem to make up his mind about me. Conversely, a squat brown and black tiger "guardian of the spirits" in the Protestant cemetery playfully engages me in a game of hide-and-seek in the flower beds, jumping out to startle me and touch my boot with a tagging paw. A playful spirit, obviously. A cuddly tiger female winds around me, and I watch a group of Irish tourists repeatedly try their luck at making friends and fail. Feeling bad, I coax her like the Pied Piper with whispers and beckoning fingers down to the group, where all the other cats have scattered from. "They're nice," I tell her, and then turn to the anxiously expectant Irish.

"She's nice," I tell them. "She'll let you pet her." And she does stay for them to scoot over and scritch at her, waiting patiently until the last hand has touched her to then duck under the rail and disappear.

As I stand to leave, my favorite, the black male with the blue eyes, reappears, melting out from the shadows of the ruins to say goodbye, rubbing that distinctive jawline over me, a face only a mother, or a complete sucker, like me, could love. I thank him, gently run a finger under that deformity, certain most people won't touch him there, remembering how much my cats at home love being scratched under the chin. He tilts his face up to me, blinks his big blue eyes slowly (so that's the power big blue eyes have?) and grins.

Cats know more than you would ever guess. Here, in the ruins, I let these strays, mangy and rag-tag, yet still elegant and commanding, wrap themselves around me, and into me. I find I need them, possibly more than they could ever need me, because they are cats, after all. Cats don't need like people need. And I am finding that I need.

---The best part is, you can

adopt a little scoundrel of your own. Going in my first Big Girl Apartment? A Roman gatto.---

XOXO