La Casa

Where is home? When you travel, the words “there’s no place like home”

Take on a whole new meaning.

Where is home? Home is the wooden door, the one there

Across from the Duomo.

With painted ceilings in every room, I see angels dancing in the kitchen.

We wake up each weekday like worshippers at a church and

I pray I’ll never have to leave this enchanted place.

Where is home? We wake up on weekends lost in new countries.

We aren’t home, but we are here.

Home is the place we long for each day,

Long for each night we’re not there…

I long for Michelangelo and Donatello.

Long for the men, the art, the beauty - there’s no place like home.

Home is the taste of fresh pasta and olive oil in the kitchen.

Home is turning the sticky key hard in the ancient lock,

Feeling the weight of all the hands who have turned the lock before us.

Home is listening to the lone man singing, the lone man playing cello outside the window.

When we close our eyes and breathe, we see stained glass

On the backs of our eyelids and breathe in orange blossoms and chocolate gelato.

Home is ephemeral.

Home is here.

Home is Florence.