Elba Island

floating in time

The  view from my balcony of the old mining town of Rio Marina unfolds a hundred steps below and three stories up where swallows screech at my reach year after year diving headlong into their nests under terracotta tiles. Old buildings  dressed in Elba’s earthen pigments huddle and wade toward the sea where the shoreline strokes the row of tiny fishing boats beached below. Top view of Palm trees fan out in the gardens shading screams of children unseen. 

I flutter my way down a hundred stone steps into town through sparkling walls built of hematite sand, zig-zagging down through narrow streets, seagulls laughing at my downhill pace. I begin to hear the wind  clinking sail pins on metal masts, rhythmic waves flapping on the pier as children’s screams get louder. Teens sit silent on the seawall watching their phones as the Mediterranean rolls pebbles behind their backs. 

I say hello to Pia who use to live below me now blind, smiling at my voice looking through me. Giulio the street sweeper has the same timid smile as when he was a boy, and the little girl I watched playing with her dolls on the balcony below now strolls her real baby. Pietro the fisherman sits idle on a bench, his thin muscular arms could pull up frantic nets through heavy waters but now his years at sea shake the waves within him constantly.  

People I don’t see remain the same in my memory: old miner Ricci who gave me pyrite crystals and a rare piece of lapis lazuli,  Signora Atos who greeted me with fried zucchini flowers to satisfy my pregnant cravings, Nostromo who saw me as a comrade when telling of his adventures on the icy waters of Lake Michigan, the fishmonger whose store is now hollow and closed with just a faint scent of the sea sailing through a broken window.  

Going back up a hundred steps with panting breath I zig-zag uphill through labyrinth streets then three stories up to rest on the weathered chair by the balcony’s door where the view of the town unfolds below seemingly the same as ever before where swallows dive headlong into their nests and screech at my reach.

Thanks for reading Over the Tuscan Dirt, where social media ends and deeper meanings begin; it’s a way of keeping closer touch with you by diving deeper into sharing snippets of my life. If you haven’t already, subscription is free to get short reads about once a week. We’ll be in touch.. Xox