Respira: A Square of Sun
By late morning the courtyard has settled into its small routines. A lemon tree in a clay pot leans toward the wall, the wall leans toward the roofs, and a blue door stands open on a room that smells of cool plaster and onions. The paving is the color of bread crust, worn to a shine where a thousand sandals have crossed it.
A single square of sun has found its way between two rooftops and onto the stone, clean at the edges as a cloth laid for lunch. A tabby has claimed it entirely. Her eyes are closed and her tail is curled around her paws, and one ear turns toward a radio murmuring from a kitchen window, then turns back.
The courtyard arranged itself around her sleep hours ago, and she has either failed to notice or, as cats would, feel it is deserving.
A bee works the geraniums. Laundry on a balcony stirs once and goes still. From above, an old woman leans on her railing and says to no one in particular, Si gode quel che si ha, and goes back inside to her stove.
Stand at the edge of the square for a moment, and the warmth reaches your ankles first, then your calves, then the long muscles of your back, loosening in order like a row of knots being untied. It carries a memory up with it: a car seat in August, leather hot under your legs, the engine ticking as it cooled, nobody in any hurry to open a door.
The cat stretches one paw forward, spreads her toes, and draws them in again. The edge of the light has moved a hand's width along the stone. She will follow it soon, unbothered, a little to the left and a little closer to the lemon tree, and the courtyard will shift itself once more to suit her.
Respira.
Recreate this feeling any day you choose. One card, one gentle thing to try, and the sun is yours.
Respira is waiting in my Etsy shop, in a 52-card deck for each week of the year or a 30-card deck to begin gently. A gift is waiting for you here.
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