This is where I come from. From the mountains and from the sea, and shadows of places that look out of reach. From rivers bothering no one, moving down the mountains, through the forests and the fields, into the ocean and back again. From neat rows of tall white trees. From rustling cornfields making friends with dandelions. From abandoned Roman ports and stone churches still standing tall. From humble Roman ruins peeking up from their bed, still holding onto stoicism as if they’d never been forgotten. From the large pale yellow moon rising in the east to say hello and relieve the early evening sun in the west. I have seen from where we come. We come from the earth. Somewhere quiet and sleepy. And now we are few in our origins.
Talk of gypsies. Of long ago Montenegro. Travelers. Nomads and a restless people. In search of… {…}. Something of a circus.
Giovanni Battista Cigainero, a great-great-great goodbye.
“Why did your family come?” It doesn’t matter. All that matters is they left.
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