At 5:30 pm, I was sitting on my windowsill, which seems like something I’ve always wanted to do, even if I hadn’t ever explicitly thought that. I threw my right leg out the window, let it soak up sun and swing. It is summertime in a big, ancient house in northern Italy and I am in the rare mood in an non-ventilated European summer where I want to sweat, where sweating would seem so luxurious and free. I finished my book of Anne Sexton poetry, reading the nicest words and looking over occasionally to watch the handfuls of Italians stroll our quiet street. I could smell espresso brewed on the stovetop from my perch. The sky seemed so blue and the angles of roofs were so satisfactorily sharp against it. I peeled pointy skin from my heel and it is smooth now. Cristina arrived back from the sea with her grandparents, her tininess tanned and wearing nautical blue and white. She jumps into my arms and I sway her back and forth.