Our archaeology professor was a young, soft-spoken postdoc who lectured with a thick Italian accent in a lilting, almost sing-song way: “The Etruscan potter realized the bowl from native clay.”
Christmas is always the musk of dusty angel robes and glow of Christmas tree lights on the hardwood floor. Easter, however, is rarely the same twice.
Food, I think, is more than a culinary experience. Memories of good meals carry the same aromatic nostalgia of campfire smoke and fondly remembered perfume.
Elena’s need for the “dazzling, terrible” Lila is so powerful that it can be felt in the writing: if some parts of the novels drag, it is because Elena, without Lila, is herself dragging.
As a writer, I want to say I’m haunted by this question—why do we travel? In reality I’m not “haunted” by the why of travel so much as annoyed by its insistence on being answered.
But after Greg passed, something truly remarkable happened. My grandpa made a request that was shocking to the doctors—he wanted to donate his son’s organs to those who needed them.
Between the cobblestones and the hills, nothing is level here in Perugia, Italy, and although I’ve wandered through almost all of the piazzas, vias, and alleys of the historical center, I still haven’t found a right angle. Nothing is flat. Nothing is straight. ...
Our memories mark everything we touch because we filter our new experiences through our old. However, unlike a fingerprint, our memories are more easily changed.