So many questions that have no good answers. So many excursions, test flights into little worlds, returning empty-handed. Nights cold and unforgiving. As the old saying goes - if it was easy, everyone would be doing it. But that was before the great democratization, when people had restraint. Now everyone is a guru. There are no more business cards, but if there were you can just make up a job title and print it there. Fake it until you make it has become the road most travelled.
I will walk home now, the cold digging into my bones. I call and ask if they ate or not. I offer to get some pizza from Farina, my favorite place here. The votes are cast, one Margherita, one Verdura. I sneak in an order and will not have to wait very long, even on a Saturday night. The place smells of wood fire, the owner is a friend and I have fine memories in this tiny space. And soon enough the two boxes are tucked into my hands, and I carry them into the night. Is there anything in the world like the smell of fresh pizza, seeping from the box as you make your home to loved ones?
I missed lunch, and the slices disappear. Everyone is tired, and overwhelmed. Treading water, at best.
Early the next morning, I pull on warm clothes and make my way down the hill. The flower stall at the corner of Kostava is just opening. They work outside, rain or shine, moving in a brisk ballet that keeps them warm. I buy 13 roses, but they are really little bunches of roses and look like many more. Everything I say is in Georgian for once, although I do surrender to pointing and grunting at the paper I would like them wrapped in, but the numbers and what card to use, and the rest is all in Georgian. Making my way back up the steep hill, I think of the last time I bought flowers here on Valentine’s Day and how that was just a few weeks ago but also a few lifetimes ago.
Inside, everyone is still asleep. I think to have just a bit of coffee but pass out on the couch instead for one of those delicious second sleeps, those narcotic slumbers that hold us tight, drooling on pillows, bodies like lead blankets sinking into cushions.
And now N is waking up, plates clinking, water running. I ask her if she would like a coffee and I make her one the way she likes it, an americano on the weak side. Then I make myself a strong one and she spies the Mother’s Day flowers, and V is wandering around in her underwear all smiles. A nuzzle, a kiss, a hand on a hip, and now I will make her huevos rancheros for breakfast, yes with fresh tortillas made from masa harina and warm water and soon the house smells spicy, and soft, and eggs are frying. The day twirls around. I will make dinner at some point, try my hand at a flan. The big questions are behind me for now. I am not struggling to find any answers, just cracking eggs and kneading dough, splashing good rum and vanilla, peeling shrimp.
The little things are enough for now, and maybe they are everything.
The authenticity of small things, of known things, of relationships without question, truly are everything in a world where everyone is an expert with out credentials.
https://youtu.be/M-Fk_42ZTtE?si=UbrbadWuw933FIS6