This morning as I was enjoying breakfast and the morning sun out on my balcony, I noticed that one of my more senior neighbors was down in the courtyard, feather dusting her car. The exterior of her car.
My first thought was a passing moment of shame, imagining what she must think of cars like mine that welcome these spring rains as a sort of annual cleansing.
Then I giggled at how entirely Italian the scene was, but yet at the same time the universal continuity of it. How I could easily imagine my grandma, back in Tennessee, giving her already shining Grand Marquis a once or twice over with her long fluffy duster. And taking an immense amount of satisfaction from it.
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