Half for her

My mum would have slightly condescendingly liked the melon I raised.

Not quite as good as the one in her imagination she would have raised if she’d only had the opportunity.

But she would have loved the spot to eat it in (extra) in the heart of St Anthony’s Forest - all one thousand hectares of it - clinging to the steep slopes of the Pratomagno.

She’d have joined me in winkling olives from the jar - the little Tuscan ones - taggiasche- slippery as tadpoles in May. Or simply resorting to dipping bread in the oil.

We’d have eventually walked back through the cool of the beech forest to the car and along the dusty Panoramica to motor down through tight curves from 26c to the hammering sun in the valley to stagger into darkened shuttered rooms to wait out the fierceness of the heat.

Later she would have helped in the garden, bundled up against the flies, staggering down the steep slope with an, ‘I’m fine. I’m fine. Just leave me alone’ with some kind of makeshift stick in her hand.

Dear old mum. Up there in the firmament. Working out how to get from the Pole Star to Cassiopeia without falling into the void. Making friends. Puffing it up. Giving it all she’s got.