Yesterday I felt irritated, empty, caged. I kept telling myself that other people are in a worse situation and that I shouldn't feel like that. But I do and because I couldn't be anything but what I was feeling, I couldn't write on day 26. Today isn't much better. Italy's death toll is nearing 19,000, mainly the older generation, those who made pasta, gnocchi; who know that at a certain time of the year there is a butter you use with the gnocchi that is from cows that feed on certain alpine flowers; the generation who knew which funghi are edible, which wild herbs to pick in the spring for your liver, that nettle picked at a certain time can be made into soup and as it ages, it can help with arthritis. Gone, without their families holding their hands. So on day 26 there were no words to write, only things to think about.
Today, I didn't walk. We began to pack up our life here and try to fit it back into the suitcases that we brought with us. We are folding up the memories of this extraordinary time in our lives. Australians of my age know little of hardship, we have little understanding of war torn countries, of Syria where they live in camps, in fear and depravation and now, they have the virus within their confines. We are quarantined with all the essentials yet we still fear change and uncertainty and these people live with them all the time. We don't allow them to escape to the safety of a country big enough to take them and learn from their stories. China has reopened it's wet markets where they think this virus originated and where endangered species are sold and they were packed with people this weekend. Nothing seems to change. If we learn from this experience it would be worth it but will we?
Tonight Andrea Bocelli sang in the Duomo di Milano and there were tears in our eyes; his songs seemed to be a collective farewell for the departed who died alone. I think we're all sheltering under an umbrella of worldwide grief and shock and it's ok to be sad and angry every now and then.
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