You're Never Fully Dressed...

March 7 2009.

Yesterday was beautiful. The best, even. Everyone in short sleeves and smiles, sitting around in warm sunlight.

For dinner, I made a big pot of pasta. Sliced and fried a large bag of mushrooms, chopped an enormous white onion. Mixed some leftover alfredo sauce, folded in handfuls of parmesan. Pesto, garlic, and plenty of ground black pepper. This is actually good, says Giampaolo. You could bottle and sell this, says Liza.

Then sing-a-longs, cigarettes, idling in a dark lot, straining to hear smog, in an empty field. Liza on her tiptoes puts her lips close to the cracks of the shed window, says, “Hello? Anyone there?”

Liza cosied up in blankets and I read her to sleep with Peter Pan. Back in my room, putting on the kettle for tea, a flow of happy first years flowed in, chattering and all squeezing onto the bed, pointing and laughing and one girl checks her watch and says, it’s almost life-bonding time.
Tell tell tell.