I have strong professional dreams. I can say unabashedly, in the true dreamer fashion, that I want to help make a difference in the world of ethnic conflict. But there’s something else that always swims in the back of my head, after all of my professional aspirations have come to fruition.
My other dream. My "when I'm an old lady" dream.
Finally, finally I will live in a trullo outside of Martina Franca, deep in the valley cut by that single twisty road. My donkeys and a little bay mare will graze contentedly in their field marked with stone fences and a few German Shepherds will be running around the yard. A breeze will ruffle through the circular little house and breathe life into the stones. My creaky old lady bones will happily rise to the occasion for a trot through the olive groves with the southern Italian beating down on my face and further bleaching my long, gray braid.
I will smoke all of the clove cigarettes I desire, as repayment to my younger self for abstaining. I hope they’ll still tingle on my tongue the same way. In the evening, frizzantino Pugliese will be in a glass on the porch table as I look out over a notebook at the animals. It'll be just fine if they're my only company. Writing to my heart’s fulfillment, I’ll feel content gazing at my mini kingdom, knowing that I’ve earned it.
