midnight mealtime
by Claudia Lundahl
I stay up all night.
“It’s the espresso,” you say, “cut it out.”
“It’s not the espresso,” I tell you, “I’m better at night. I feel closer to them.”
“Closer to who? The ghosts?”
“All of them.”
“You came here to be closer to ghosts?”
“I don’t know why I came here.”
This morning, I was so tired I fell asleep while floating on my back at Spiaggia di San Nicolò and got carried out to sea.
I stay up all night.
Smoking cigarettes and sipping limoncello. The wind blows in when night falls, rattling the shutters of the old house, banging the wooden gate against the stone wall on the terrazzo. The hinge is rusted and decaying from salt, it doesn’t catch in the latch any longer. At midnight I boil water for ravioli, simmer garlic in the pan, then mix in the passato. I cook but I do not eat. I take comfort in the smell while I set the bowls on the table and light another MS Rosse. Then, I fry seadas in butter and drizzle them with warm honey. When the food is prepared I place a towel over each bowl and put them into the refrigerator.
In the bedroom there’s a window that overlooks the bay and I can see the light coming from the San Marco Lighthouse. When I used to sleep at night I would wake up in a cold sweat and search the darkness for the blinking of that small light. As if my waking self were stranded at sea, needing guidance, needing something to tell me I’m not close enough to crash and I can drift a little longer.
Claudia Lundahl is an artist and writer. She lives in London, England with her husband and their two dogs. Find more of her work online at www.claudianlundahl.com.