I am sure we died and went to Tuscany heaven albeit with truant WIFI connectivity. Perhaps sensing our reluctance to pinch ourselves for fear of breaking the spell, the conscientious bees around take an occasional gentle jab or two at us in a bid to help us realize that this is in fact Real and not just an unimaginably beautiful dream.

In an ideal world – you would circumnavigate the globe and when your feet are weary and your soul is overwhelmed – you would arrive in Tuscany.

You would lie on the dewy grass and close your eyes and heal.

Amid blooming sunflowers and fruit laden olive trees.
Amid sated bees and purring kittens.
Amid drunken vineyards and wild berry bushes.
Amid yellow sunshine and a flirtatious breeze.
Amid meandering paths on mountains and the shade of a cypress.

When you feel hungry you would pluck a wild berry and feel the flavor of an unwashed wildly grown fruit – pop in your mouth.

When you feel thirsty you would drink the wine that grew out of the ground where you lie…

When you tire of too much peace (if that is possible) – you would drive down to civilization – maybe Florence – take in a renaissance painting or two and drive back up to your haven to recover from the heady feeling of having indulged your senses too much.

When God finished creating the world – he rested on the seventh day.

I am reasonably sure he rested in Tuscany…..


The Day My Grandmother Died


My grandmother passed away when I was 13. 
She was one of those women who smiled even when the sky was overcast with great big depressing black clouds. The kind of woman who kept her cool even when the house and her life was chaotic. The kind who was generous even when she suffered and was thankful even on days when she was ill. 
I don’t remember her even looking at someone angrily. And we did plenty to make her so. 
The day she died, I remember my mother gently shaking me awake at six in the morning and telling me to get dressed. On an ordinary day I would have protested and resisted and asked why? But there was something in the quiet solemnity of her voice that begged no questions. I was 13 but I heard it almost as if she said it in so many words. 
I dressed and we went to pay our last respects. I saw the body of the gentlest woman in the world laid out and I cried like a little baby. My mom let me be for a while and then said – Come on – you will be late. I asked for what? And she said – For your poetry competition. I looked at her incredulously – Do you still think I should go for that? And she said in the most tender voice possible – ‘Yes. Life goes on. You cannot do anything here. And she would have wanted you to go.’ I paraphrase of course – but I think I remember most of it correctly. 
I tried hard to understand what my mother wanted me to know. And I think I got it.
It wasn’t an important exam or a life-altering competition. It was just one of those inter school things. The competition wasn’t important – the moving on was. 
My grandmother laughed. She cried. She lived. And now she was gone. 
It was the turn of the living now. To live. 
I did go to that competition. I wrote a poem which won me the prize. 
I wrote a poem on sunshine and the beach. On the day my grandmother died.