Today is cold. The rain has stopped but the dampness remains. The sky is cloudy. The wind is strong and cuts through my light jacket. It is an ugly day all around.

I met with my surgeon this morning. He unwrapped my finger. Though it is still swollen, he was pleased as the swelling has gone down, and the finger is not infected. I thought it looked ugly. There are two yellow pins holding my bone together. He said the finger had been quite bad. He had to repair the tendon and stitch the bottom of the finger back together. He finished his inspection, rewrapped it and said he’d see me in three weeks and would arrange for finger therapy, not physical therapy but finger therapy.

When I was a kid, this was the quiet day. The only place we ever went on Sundays was my grandparents’ house which was always filled with relatives. It was the Sunday gathering spot. I can still close my eyes and see the house. From the front door to the backdoor was a long narrow walkway. The small backyard had grass and its back wall was brick which was actually a wall of the church on the next street down. A small cave-like addition led to the backdoor and the kitchen. The addition had the refrigerator. The kitchen was small. On the stove was always the biggest pot filled with pasta. People ate when they got hungry. My mother and my aunts aways sat at the kitchen table. The air was filled with smoke from their cigarettes. Beyond the kitchen was another room, dark with only small windows. Up the stairs was another floor and beyond that was one more floor with two bedrooms and the bathroom.

I used to wander the city when I was older. It was so different from where I lived. On every corner there seemed to be a small store. People sold slices of pizza and cups of Italian ice. I remember just down the street from my grandparents’ house a woman sold the pizza out her window. That’s when I developed a taste for cold pizza like the bakeries sold.

Later on, when I started traveling, I loved to wander cities with no destinations in mind. I’d stop at small stores and get something to eat. Sometimes it was a sandwich on fresh, just baked bread. Other times it was pastry. Sometimes I’d sit, drink a cup of coffee and watch the world go by.

All those wanderings always reminded me of my grandparents’ city. That where my wandering was born.

This entry was posted on October 2, 2022 at 12:21 pm and is filed under Musings. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments. Both comments and pings are currently closed.