We were wandering through southern Europe, that summer of 1971, in our old Ford Anglia Sportsman (yes, the one with a spare wheel on the bumper), and had driven up the road to the Castelfusano Country Club near Lido di Ostia, thinking it would probably be far too posh for us.
“Watch out, it’s a llama, it’ll spit at you!” I warn her just in time and the white rays spray across the glass coffee table as she steers me. Sneaking a peek, I see her lower lips glistening.
One species I save and replant carefully with her peers and between the pavement I just let them grow: Oenotera, the evening primrose. Because of my neighbor and her Onagres, which travel on the wind from her garden to mine.
This week, after the funeral of my sister-in-law (my age) we stayed in Lizz’s grandmother’s apartment and she stayed in the guest room upstairs of the retirement home.