By Haley Swanson
Though the natural disaster devastates towns 200-plus miles from where I studied, I think of the Arno, the stilts propping up the buildings lining its banks like medieval afterthoughts. I imagine the long limbs of the Florentine /pensione/ receptionist who I used to love, bent into unnatural angles by falling ceiling stones. Though I know he’s since left Florence for Milan and is no longer a receptionist, this does not stop me from wondering. I move one leg as if to stand but continue to sit, my body torn between these two movements. It seems more reflective of how I feel than directive motion: this indecision, this hovering.
About the Author
Haley Swanson is a writer whose essays appear in The Rumpus, Electric Literature, and The Millions. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.
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