It took a long time for him to reach this decision. Standing now, as he was, hands resting on the stone wall around this loggia, “his porch,” peering out at the vines his grandfather had tended for so many years. “How will they fare?” he asked the wind that tickled his nose and rustled the leaves of grapevines heavy with fruit. “How will the vines prosper without Nonno Filippo to talk to them?”
loggiaThe breeze brought the scent of evening flowers, sagebrush, and roasted meat to his nose. Could it be from as far away as Siena, lit now by the flickering lights of sunset, or from as close as the grill at the outdoor patio where his grape pickers gathered at this time of year? Or could the scent be stirred by his memories, a beckoning to his youth, a reminder of what life was like before he
