Susanna Lucatello

Exterior. 

San Sebastián, spring of an indefinite year. Andrea Laszlo sings, “the world is an irrational guy, it does what it wants, it gives no explanation.” A north wind blows, carrying away clouds and uncertainty. On a bench without corners, a man in a honey-colored jacket buries his head, eyes, nose, and mouth in a book so dense it seems to recount the entire universe. The sea sways, the world lives, the air lets meaningless words set like the sun.

What color are your eyes?

It depends on the weather.

I am fairly certain that on August 27, 2019, as I watched the seagulls cross the roof of the world on that chalk-colored beach in the Gulf of Mexico, they were British racing green. Just as I am certain they were the yellow of citron soda on that 21st of April when, standing by a door blown open by the salt-heavy wind, I said my final goodbye to my greatest love. It depends on the weather, the weather inside, I mean.

They tell me I don’t use punctuation, that I don’t know how to use it, that I’m not capable.

But I remember very well when, in elementary school, teacher Stefania in that classroom with wooden and glass windows embracing the pines and mulberry trees on the hill in the middle of the city explained to me that, for example, the comma is used to give a pause that isn’t too long, like taking a breath; it marks time, it doesn’t stop it completely, it alternates it like the sand dunes you ride over on a bicycle, going up and then down and then up again as you head straight toward the sea.