"It is winter and I am deep inside, folding and sorting. Wet snow is falling and I am putting things back. Mantle. Bedside. Countertop. On each surface, the objects find their places. I don’t have much here, so I can see each and every item, alone. Sometimes, I even close my eyes when I put my hands on them. The thick coating of the sofa. The cold metal of the caffettiera. They each come from somewhere. Never from nowhere. Once, in the library, where I’d gone to look at advertisements in the paper for Natale, I saw a book of maps on a stand. I peeled through the pages until I found Italia and I saw the pale blue that surrounded it. It touched so many other places. From Rimini, I could trace my finger down and around boots and islands and all the way to what must be the East. Once, at the market, a man gave me a tiny cup of thick mud that he still called coffee. There was a sharp, spicy taste tucked inside the sand and sludge. There are so many things inside of each thing. Each time I touch one thing, I can taste another. "
-xo, Otea
