Learning Italian Slowly

I learn three words each day. It's been seven months now and

perhaps I could carry on a conversation with a Sicilian child. If she

spoke slowly. In present tense. And only about pencils and dogs

and cheese. Sometimes I feel my new Italian self growing inside

me. He's a little man who gesticulates as he speaks. He rides his

bicycle to the market to buy eggplant, anise, and porcini. Then

delivers them to his elderly mother. In the afternoon he plays

bocce with the older men. The children mimic the way he

whispers to himself. The grimaces he makes with his face. When

the moon comes out he slicks back his hair and sings beneath the

window of the woman he loves. What a sight he is. Down on one

knee. His arms outstretched. So willing to make a fool of himself.

Over and over again.