Corfu. Shadow of a fig. Plate with watermelon.

Page six.

Corfu. Shadow of a fig. Plate with watermelon.

It was hot today. I didn't even want to drink tea. I didn't even want to think. I sat down by the wall where the fig tree was growing. Its shadow was sparse, soft, smelling of childhood. One of the neighbors brought out a plate with sliced watermelon. He just put it down. He didn't say a word. It wasn't a treat. It was a gesture. No reason. No comment. As they do here.

I sat and watched the ice slowly melt in the glass. No one was in a hurry. Even the day. Even the sun was not hot - but thoughtful.

In another place I would have been doing something long ago. Writing. Answering letters. But here I just sat. And that was also a thing. And a meaning.

I ate a slice of watermelon. I remembered the taste. I wrote it down in my notebook.

And I thought - to live means to remember such moments.

Continued on the next page.