The Memory of a Morning in Rome

My alarm beeps abruptly and wakes me from a slightly stressful dream and a well-deserved sleep. My brain is tired from the constant flow of information. Grammar and sentence structures are overpowered by the dozens of words I learn each day. My mind is active immediately. I pull back my old floral covers and press my feet against the cold tile floor. Slowly, yawning, and reluctantly, I walk to the bathroom. On my way, I stop at the window sill and gaze at the Eternal City. The city is waking up.

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I go to brush my teeth, wash my face, and end up staring at my reflection. I feel frustrated by the disruption in my usually flawless visage. The polluted air of the Italian capital is my enemy. As I dress for the day, I mentally calculate whether I’ve worn this exact outfit before. I didn’t bring a lot of clothes with me. I’m only here for a month.

I slide open the wooden door that separates the bedrooms from the living room, revealing a small table with a pale, blue plaid cloth draped delicately over it. It is covered with old letters, a cheap computer, some glasses and a small breakfast. A large plate sits on the side, hosting small crackers called Fette Biscotti. Bowls of jam, butter, and cereals line the plate. There is always a cup of steamed milk and maybe a banana. Oh, and definitely some Nutella.

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As I sit down, Guiliana, my sweet host mother, pours me a small cup of coffee that she prepared for me in a tiny moka. She tells me she is seventy years old but I secretly know she is seventy-two. We make kind small talk. We talk about our dreams from last night and our plans for the day. I often think back on our pleasant conversations.

At 8.15, I am done with breakfast, have put on my shoes and am, maybe or maybe not, struggling to unlock the door.

“Buona giornata!” The wish escapes the kitchen.
“Anche tu! À più tardi.”

Excerpt From: “Collected Writings of Elena Goodson.” iBooks.

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