an old writer and his words

I can picture her sittingin her small apartmentholding a cup of tea.This is Parma, or perhaps,Milan, two of the threecities I visited in Italy.Her hair is long, grayand white, her smile pained.She does not know I existbut we share so much,a father we never metfirst and foremost.We will never meet,for she, too, may be dead…