Some mornings, the words dance

There are mornings when I wake up and the words dance on their own in my head.

They keep doing it until they find a way out. They follow me like a cat, hungry, waiting by the table for me to fill its bowl.

Now they were following me home. They were in the car with me, bouncing over the speed bumps on the road that leads back to the parking spot by the gate.

Not long ago, I had just stepped out of the hairdresser’s. And right then, I realized I didn’t know where I had parked my car.

It’s something I’m used to by now.

I just knew it was to the left, so I walked that way. I was moving through the heat, not really seeing what was around me. Only the sound of a dog barking loud, from a balcony high up on the left. I reached the spot I thought I’d left the car.

Pressed the button on the key the car unlocked. Only then did I know for sure it was mine.

Before that, I wasn't certain.

And it brought back a memory from years ago.

I had parked in the center of the town I used to live in. There was a woman standing in front of my car, struggling to open it with her own keys. I had said, “Excuse me, that’s my car.”

She turned around surprised, maybe even a little scared. For a second, she must have thought I was the one making a mistake. But then she understood. She apologized and walked away.

I stayed there for a moment, watching.

It was almost funny. Like a scene in a quiet comedy. She wasn’t trying to break in, but from the outside, it looked exactly like that.

Today I got in the car, backed out, and let myself sink into the heat of this small community I live in. A town where, after a while, everyone knows who you are. They know your limits. They accept you for the character you’ve become.

In a way, they protect you. Like an extended family.

I thought about the people I’ve brought here. People who have nothing to do with this place, but who came willingly. I often can’t leave, can’t really move. And yet I manage to bring others in.

Sometimes I laugh about it. I should ask the town hall for something in return. Maybe I could partner with the local tourism board.

I bring outsiders to this little town. People who don’t belong here, but who end up loving it.

I thought of two guys from Bologna I’m working with now. Citizens of the world who somehow found themselves lost in the countryside, just for one dinner.

The hairdresser was talking about Naples and Barcelona. And I remembered when I was eight, in Barcelona with my parents.

We lost the car.

We spent the whole day looking for it. While I waited for the haircut to finish, I flipped through the pages of a beautiful book.

It was on the counter, a gift from a client. A photography book, like the art books I have at home. It reminded me of a Caravaggio book I keep nearby.

But this one was about razors. Razors through history from the 5th or 6th century BCE, to the first mechanical and electric models of the 20th century.

Photos of cardboard boxes of blades, razors gifted by D’Annunzio to fellow soldiers.

Meanwhile, we talked about jamón, the Spanish ham. And I remembered something I read last night about Extremadura.

I know nothing about that region, except what I’ve read and imagined. I picture wide open land, wild pigs, the scorching summer heat.

And so it all blends together: the lost car, the antique razors, the guys from Bologna, Barcelona, Extremadura.

Everything overlaps. Everything gets muddled.

And I drive home, in the July heat,
not quite sure what to hold on to,
and what to let go.