Back when I had a home, Sunday lunches were the thing; kids running in and out through open doors, lots of reading of newspapers at the table and slapping of full bellies over long coffee. Where I come from all houses are summer houses, in the sense of not being out of place in summer, in the sense of being quite fine with good weather, to contrast with a detached faux-Tudor. Back when home was stripping off faster than I could pull it back up, a tight succession of extraordinary Sunday lunches followed nonetheless, like an elegy or in jest: Lisbon, Umbria, Istria, Rijeka, and even Paris, atop skyscrapers, in gardens, on footpaths, orange and full-mouthed and in counterpoint (multiple voices, independent in contour and rhythm, interdependent harmonically, you know it when you hear it). I took photos of the kids that were still running in and out, to memorise and to recreate (or at least to not forget and not lose) but of course I did not memorise and did not recreate even though I did not forget and did not lose. Life was Sundayless and lunchless with devastating meticulousness until today another one happened, all of its own accord. Like a thaw.
