By the time we were standing outside Bramasole, we had watched Under the Tuscan Sun and Diane Lane for years.
Before I knew I would marry him.
Before I knew I would carry three daughters.
While cooking.
While baking.
On Sunday mornings with our girls climbing into our bed with us.
At Christmas, after we had already watched every Christmas movie twice.
We had bundled our girls into the car and driven from Cascais to Biarritz, east along the Mediterranean coast before turning at Genoa, south towards Tuscany.
By the time Petra crashed into the arms of her godmother Kate, we had munched on crêpes and inhaled oysters in Biarritz, had lunch with a former colleague of his from Hong Kong, returned to Avignon and Aix for lavender soaps and ice cream in cones.
It was late afternoon.
Spending time with Kate and John means the girls learn manners,
not to back-chat,
from family other than their parents.
The girls learn how they came to be.
The girls hear things we would never have thought important.
It means buying steak at the local butcher,
him and Padme making tartare for Kate.
John pouring sparkling and wine,
fussing over the tomahawk, rare on the grill.
Gelatos in the village square.
“Spaghetti-doro” for my little one.
Burrata soft, creamy white,
over chunks of hand-cut tomatoes, red, yellow, bright.
It means days lazy by the pool,
disappearing with Kate for hours,
to be heard,
to be seen,
to be gotten.
It means leaving the children behind for an afternoon and driving off with him.
It means standing outside the gate of an Italian villa perched above the road, taking selfies.
It means me leaning into him and saying:
“I’d like the girls to be able to get married at home one day.
In our garden.
If and when they choose.”
It means him holding me a little tighter.
It means him saying:
“I was very clear with them.
We didn’t give them permission to grow up this fast.
They just don't listen.”
It means me saying:
“There’ll be a time for just us again.”
