Under an umbrella of rain, the house in vicolo Gorizia isn’t smiling, like
the other ones in the neighborhood are, their lights on in the kitchen and
on the refrigerator and from the news on the TV. Inside her belly, made of
rooms, no more pictures, furniture, no more clocks on the walls marking
the time to fill the bowl with cereal, before sending the kids to school. And
no more calendars to note down dentist appointments, no more mirrors,
records, rugs or linen: an animal grown old, its insides gone.

Only time —right here, of all places, where there’s no need for it, right
here where you’d have bet it had come to a stop like a crippled clock—
stayed behind to inhabit it, since the family moved out after ten years
waiting for me, a runaway, to be back for dinner.

Tonight I’m back here. On the mail slot I still see my name, and in the
keyhole, the keys that my father had had duplicated still work: only for my
seat at the table has the statute of limitations lapsed.