Last week we put our boy on a train bound for New York City, where he got on an airplane for Istanbul and then another for Italy. He will spend this semester learning Italian, traveling to Pompeii and Venice and Rome and Barcelona, studying beautiful ruins and temples and domes and naves and buttresses, walking in the footsteps of Pliny and Michelangelo. Eating gelato, discovering wine and olives, watching the volcanoes from his terrace by the sea. I watch the moon, thinking of it hanging low in the trees over Capri, glittering on the bay. I knit. Here in my kitchen in the country, looking out at the snowy orchards and fields, I make things; turn wool into a hat, cotton into quilt squares. It is deeply, vividly, crashingly quiet.