it’s been raining every day since I got here.

I don't mind.

but it seems that napolitans aren’t too fond of it.
 

sometimes, I take shelter from the rain with a cup of coffee.

if only for a moment.

other times, I find refuge in their churches.

just like they do, always so devout.

 

entrusted to San Gennaro.

gathered, praying for their own,

at the altars that line the streets.

they even pray to Diego—

who never truly left.

 

maybe they feel vulnerable?

 

days go by and, if I’m lucky,

the sun comes out now and then.

 

though it never lasts for long.

 

and the thing is, here they learned long ago,

that everything can change in a second.

that nothing is infallible.

 

isn’t that the same ghost that haunts me?

 

always lurking.

 

the obsession with thinking every day could be the last.

leaves me frozen.
 

but here, even though the city seems to twist in pain,

in this superstitious, impossible daughter of death,

there is a sense of calm.

 

what is it about Naples?

could it be that this city lives in a way I can’t?