Rome, I have come to feel you, like home. Your streets, now yet unfamiliar to my feet. The room in which I sit to write down my grief – a library of books in this, Italian language, a white spacious desk with stacked books in both corners to deliver comfort, a soft green easy chair. To the left of the desk, a tall, narrow window overlooking a rectangle of a garden – I count five cats lounging in different spots throughout the day, trying on various colourful constellations. The rooftops of this neighbourhood – more gardens, closer to the skyline. The colours of the buildings – bubble gum pink and mint green and pale pastel blue and cream, and then some terracotta and earth yellow. Did the painters confer before the act of painting, or is this palette the result of haphazard creation? This room, these buildings, these cats, will be my home for nine days and ten nights. My first stop upon arrival, even before buying some food, was the bookshop. I needed to buy this new notebook, to begin writing down my grief.
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