The van has left already. I tell you I'll need a moment and walk to the terrace. I look at the view, washed by a late-August storm while we were closing the last boxes, my view since childhood: lake, black volcanic beach, the restaurants and cafes, the village perched on the crater, the church where we got married. Hidden among the oak trees, a hoopoe sings its farewell. I close my eyes, let all this mark my eyelids, like light on roll film. When I lock the door, this will no longer be home. Or maybe it will always be.
Slawka G. Scarso is a copywriter and translator based between Rome and Geneva. Words in Mslexia, Ellipsis Zine, Entropy, and at www.nanopausa.com and on Twitter @nanopausa.