I can picture her sitting
in her small apartment
holding a cup of tea.
This is Parma, or perhaps,
Milan, two of the three
cities I visited in Italy.
Her hair is long, gray
and white, her smile pained.
She does not know I exist
but we share so much,
a father we never met
first and foremost.
We will never meet,
for she, too, may be dead now
but today she is sitting
at a small table
in her apartment in Parma
thinking about our father.