An orange unlike any other and a reminder why I attempted Italian so often. Saturday was a true Saturday--the way Saturdays were when she was five--a word that could contain whole amusement parks, the wintery-kind, their summer memories waiting like pennies on the ice for the melt into possible wishes. The whole day a piggy bank. Saturdays had that ephemeral vastness--something more vast in the word than the day could ever really contain. But yesterday was bright orange and a half-dozen lightbulbed bouquets, a frozen fire, good olives and what it felt like to be Saturdayed.
Everyone should begin with parting gifts. The goodbyeing out of the way and maybe even the most fractured of us could plan the reverse getaway.