You are there! You are there!

The sun is beating down on us on Fitzgibbon Avenue here in West Brunswick in the state of Victoria. Cello and I hunker down in our home behind drawn blinds but I can still hear the rattling of the old trolleys going by. Is this the same Joan who walked to Zabar's and Fairway on the bustling, so full of itself Upper West Side Broadway. Yes, yes, made rich with glazes of tracks and new footpaths; yesterday, I sat under the shade of our apricot tree in the backyard and read John Le Carre's "Mission Song" while Vincent, our neighbor, chopped wood for his outdoor oven, just as he did as a young man in Calabria; now 70, he still farms his backyard as if it was acres and makes grappa in his garage. I like to hear his steps, the blows of his axe, Anna, his wife, calling to him in Italian, the only language she wants to speak, asking him to be careful, I imagine. How to explain how lives border each other, but they do, I feel the strength of Vincent's arm and he must hear my sighs. From now on while you in the Northern hemphisphere cool down, we here will warm up and watch the skies with anxious eyes for the promise of rain.