Chapter 17 #2
We pause at a large stand selling cured sliced meats and sausages.
Alex seems intrigued by how many varieties there are.
She pulls out her phone to take some photos, and I step away for a moment.
I’m starting to sweat in the warmth of the sun.
I slip under the shade of a tree and gaze out at the lake.
I have so many memories here. Surely, something will spark a recollection of a snack I enjoyed.
I close my eyes, breathing slowly, thinking of my dad—all the times he took me here, the joy of discovery as we tried everything—the crunch of local walnuts, licking the viscous stickiness of orange blossom honey from my fingers, the cold silky sweetness of a scoop of pistachio gelato.
As I let myself sink into the memories, I relax into the moment.
I’m not trying to wrestle information from my brain; I’m just remembering the joy of being here with him.
And just like that a memory rises. I can picture it clearly.
My dad and I sitting just a few yards away on the lakefront, sharing a snack of ripe figs stuffed with goat cheese and wrapped in a local salted, cured meat, a sort of prosciutto.
I was probably twelve or thirteen. Dad was using his pocket knife to slit the figs and stuff them with gobs of the creamy goat cheese, his big fingers surprisingly dexterous.
I open my eyes and glance to the right, seeing us sitting there side by side, dangling our legs in the cool water.
I can almost taste again the gritty sweetness of the figs, the rich creamy funk of the goat cheese, the salty umami of the dried meat.
It was a simple, perfect snack on a simple, perfect day.
“There it is,” I murmur. I’m so relieved I could cry. It’s not much, not even really cooking, but it’s a snack with a fond memory attached. It’s mine and it counts.
“Alex, we’ve got to go.” I say, pausing to purchase a dozen slices of a local salted, cured meat. We have only a few minutes until we need to meet Lorenzo.
At a fruit stand I stop and buy ripe figs.
The owner is there, a broad-hipped woman with wavy, dark hair.
A young man in his mid-teens who has the same wavy hair takes our order.
He chooses the figs carefully, darting quick, appreciative glances in Alex’s direction.
He’s very tall, gangly, and cute, and Alex seems to notice him too.
She’s concentrating hard on the display of fruit, but I can see her watching him out of the corner of her eye.
I hand her the euros and ask her to pay.
Surprised, she does. The boy blushes a dusky red when he takes the money and hands her the punnet of figs, their fingers brushing.
He murmurs his thanks in Italian and she looks down at her boots.
It’s sort of endearing, how flustered she is.
For a moment, I recall the almost painful euphoria of adolescent crushes and first love, the heightened awareness of the other person, the self-consciousness mixed with anticipation.
I haven’t felt that way in years. Sometimes being an adult is boring.
It’s fun to see a little romance unfolding before my eyes.
We stop at a cheese stall to purchase a soft goat cheese with a rind of ash.
I also pick up a small jar of orange blossom honey.
I check my phone. It’s time to meet Lorenzo.
As we head up the street, I glance back at the lake.
I see us sitting shoulder to shoulder, my father’s broad form bent toward me, listening to my words.
He always listened gravely, intently, as though what you said was the most important thing in the world.
In my mind he hands me a fig bursting with goat cheese.
“Here you go, my little farfallina.”
I was his little butterfly. Aurora was his coccinella, his ladybug. I see us there, savoring that sweet, unhurried moment in the sun, blissfully unaware that a few short years later our time together would be cut brutally short.
“Un bel pomeriggio,” I murmur, pausing for a moment, feeling wistful and a little sad. I wish I had held tighter to those fleeting moments. I wish I had known.
“What does that mean?” Alex asks, coming to a stop next to me.
“It means ‘a good afternoon,’?” I tell her, turning away from the water. “It’s something my dad would say every day we were here in Italy. He’d watch the sun set over the lake every evening and say it before the night fell. He loved it here.”
“Oh.” She pauses, sounding a little hesitant. “That’s really nice.”
It’s so rare I talk about my dad. It feels good to speak of him to someone else.
“We should get going,” I tell Alex, and we head back the way we came.
Lorenzo will be waiting with the car. I glance back once more over my shoulder at the lake.
That afternoon with my dad was a good one, a happy memory clouded by what came too soon after.
But here I am again, so many years later, making a new good memory.
It’s unexpected, but I find it is not unwelcome.
“Un bel pomeriggio,” I whisper again. And this time I am not thinking of the past but of today.