Marchesa means Dutchess

A good day. Kitchen's been cleaned since breakfast. The fruit bowl is full of fresh selections from the market. Even a load of laundry has been hung.

Has been hung... sort of has a nice ring to it.
And bells, now have been rung.
Has been hung... ring... rung. It's amazing that I get anything done.

I realize that I'm gazing out the window into the open space, enclosed by my kitchen window and the walls of the neighboring buildings. An open space that, by definition, goes up to the sky, but also down, to the patio below. Just one floor below.

Oh yes, I realize. Time to get the kids.
Out the door for horse drawn carriages and down the street I stroll.
Faccio due passi as I learned to say one day ago.


Kids, bikes, and two packs on my back. We need to stop by home.
About this home... have I told you?

It's a palazzo. Palazzo Parisi and the Marchesa herself lives there still.
She's old and crippled and has a nasty bite.
Everything is wrong and nothing is right.
I don't like this crabby old woman... but let's not be impolite...

I can't remember the Italian but she complains.
Complains for wrappers left on the floor that blew in from carnival 8 months before.
Wrappers from candy we do not eat, but I pick them up from under her feet.

More yelling as I put away bikes.
What can this be? What have I done?
Ah... the lights. I've turned on two when I should only use one.
I make the mistake to try and point out... and words from me only cause her to shout.

What waste I have made!
She pays the bills!
And what an expense!
There's a light in the room!
You don't need the one in the hall!
And as she screams on... I decide to stop listening.



My home brings me joy and I'm glad when I'm there
High ceilings and large windows that let in fresh air
Climb up marble stairs with an old iron railing
Just ignore the old hag that never stops wailing