Wednesday, May 15

sbaglio... mistake
My italian is riddled with them
broken and gasping through the discussion of our evening plans
what we "will" do expressed as what we "are" doing
the ten year old patiently corrects my conjugation
My hardened brain
I imagine it something like the brains you see floating in glass jars
Rubberized by the American formaldehyde bubble
These sbiglii (?) are one of many weak defenses I have
As my children bob along in the soap
They were American, then Italian, and now American again
Simply comfortable with their reality
Accepting what it presented to them
I'm the only one that sees the past and future
And blinds herself with panic of what will be lost
Or gained.

And in defense of my sanity
I put up blinders and try to see what they see for a time.
All is not lost
They still are what they were
They are evolving, still rich with experiences we worked so hard to give them
Distinctly suffering through their mother's broken Italian
And I see they are fine
And I am also
And sbaglii are essential to where I am
Where I want to go.

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