On occasion, for different reasons and with regard to different persons, Rebecca and I have become aware of illnesses that beset the people in Spoleto we know.

The knowledge establishes a peculiar connection between us and this place: by no means intimate yet, the attachment grows closer with each new filament.

Like today, sadly we are told the reason for the sudden absence of Benito, our next-door neighbor to whom we hardly ever spoke except in passing.

Somewhere in town a notice will be posted in memoriam, while the service set for Monday is too sacred for our feeble salutations to intrude.

One night on the terrazzo, then, we will raise a flute of spirits to the poliziotto, remembering his rye smile at a mistimed buon giorno.