My window invites all of Florence into my room with three unimpressive beds, two large oak armoires, and one quaint oval oak table with three chairs, one for the each of us. The screen permits warm breeze to cool me, only if I sit really really still. If I press my face close enough to its grid, I get a wash of wind strong enough to move the front strands of my hair messily back. If I press my nose close enough to the barriers with eyes wide open, I smell greenery that makes my nose and eyes itch uncontrollably. Still, I’d prefer to sit perched on the messily painted white windowsill, listening to sounds I have yet identify.
My window gives me all of Florence in what I guess to be a 20 x 10 window frame. Paris, Africa, and Rome lie not to far beyond the mountains that paint the background dull and uninviting grey. But they tempt me anyways, me wanting to see if the beauty on the other side can amount to my backyard. Rooftops are at my choosing to count when I can’t sleep, 1, 2, 3, 4… Streets are hidden behind thick bushes and tall trees, sturdy buildings, parts of a cultures history I’ve come to study. I can’t see them but I know they are there and I will walk them, ride them, until I find gelato.
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