September Preparations
September does not announce itself in Marisòla. It arrives the way most things arrive here — quietly, while you were doing something else, and slightly earlier than expected.
The signs are small. The light in the morning has changed — softer now, less certain of itself. The sea is the same sea, but it looks different at six o’clock than it did in July. Dante has moved back to his usual place on the kitchen floor, which he abandons in August for reasons he has never explained.
I have been making small preparations. The shutters have been looked at — not repaired exactly, but considered, which is the first step. The notebooks from the summer have been moved to the shelf, where they will remain unfinished in an orderly way. The stone with the hole through it is where it has been since I carried it up from the beach, at the threshold, doing whatever it is such a stone does. The moka pot has been cleaned, which happens twice a year whether it needs it or not.
At Bar del Corso, Tonino has returned to his quieter rhythm, and the extra chairs put out for August have been taken in. Peppè and Calòggero are at their usual table, the argument going on at its usual pace — which is to say it stops for no one and settles nothing. Rosa has shut Trattoria Da Rosa and gone off somewhere to recover from a summer of feeding people who could not understand a word she said, a fact that never once slowed her down. Don Pino is back as well, returned from two months at a conference whose subject he has not disclosed and which no one has thought to ask about. None of this is preparation. It is simply Marisòla, resumed.
The summer people have left their version of the town behind — slightly observed, slightly changed, not quite the same as before they arrived and not quite different enough to matter. By October nobody will remember exactly what July looked like.
Eight essays, I wrote this summer. Some of them said what I intended. Others went somewhere I had not planned and I followed them, which is usually how it works.
The lemon tree is still leaning toward the sea, as though it has not yet decided whether the season is over. I have stopped waiting for it to make up its mind.
This morning, returning from the walk with Dante, I found something on the doorstep of Villa Verbino. I have not yet decided what to do about it.
Perhaps tomorrow.
Osalio Verbino
Marisòla, end of summer 2026
Osalio Verbino — Appunti da Marisòla Track 05: Villa Verbino
Music: AI-generated with Suno Pro 2026