by Edana Minghella, in Liguria, Italy
Sometimes the sadness is overwhelming.
Less than two weeks ago our town was full of energy and life.
Of people walking their beloved dogs (dogs are A Thing in Italy).
Busy baristas calling sit down, cara, I’ll bring you a macchiato.
The market, buzzing, with its cut price cashmere and designer knock off and fabulous handbags and too many people and everyone searching out a bargain.
Couples sharing a bag of fritto misto in the piazza, and hungry seagulls, staring.
Friends watching the sun go down over aperitivi on the pontoon.
The evening passeggiata along the seafront. Everyone dressed up. The older folk arm in arm, the youth smoking, the little ones running off. Everyone stopping and greeting and taking photos of the sunset.
Little boats bobbing and bumping the harbour wall, and a queue at the bus stop and the baker’s.
Tourists climbing the steep paths up to the castle for the amazing view.
Fishermen unsnarling orange ropes, and oyster shacks ready with cold wine.
The odd besuited official in shades. The uniformed policewoman, so stylish.
Oh the collie, who crouches, waiting, alert, suddenly leaping up when his owner is a metre away, running to his next spot to crouch again, wide eyed, urgent. He never tires of it. A bright and beautiful character in the town, that dog. We all know him, we all smile at his game. We all love him.
Surfers.
Ice cream.
The crepe place.
The town hall and everything needing to be stamped.
The cinema.
The nowhere to park so don’t even try.
Gone.
All gone.
How will it recover? How will we?