Buongiorno

By Mary Chandler Philpott

Italian doesn’t have “good morning.” They have “buongiorno,” but it isn’t the same. When it’s morning and feels like spring I can imagine my father’s voice saying it. He says it better than anyone. The whole sky in two words: this little thing is important. “Good morning,” he says, standing outside church, listening to the bells. “Good morning.” And when he says it I feel like life is nothing but morning, nothing but steeples in early light.

Here there is no such thing as “good morning.” It belongs to my father. These two words are his; and he is not here.