Stain

"...people who stain your life." - James Salter (letter to Robert Phelps, April 30, 1970)

I am finding I am stained, stained like the tipped glass of red wine permeates and forever colors the white linen tablecloth. I never knew that people could affect me in such a way. I never knew that I could be so deeply & profoundly touched. It is the Italians. Americans flutter in my peripheral vision, barely seen. But those Italians, with their deep brown eyes, black thick hair, macchiato skin, open genuine smiles, their warmth, grab me with just a look and hold my senses captive. Their eyes so watchful, taking in every detail, draw into me. I want to melt into each one, get lost in the way they experience the world. I want to live like they do, feel the way they love from their perspective, experience life through the deep dark pools that are their eyes. I let the feeling stain me. I will never forget the faces. I will never forget the look. Why is it I feel so alive when I am in the presense of the Italians?