I am in Italy. Parma, where my dad was from and now resides permanently. I hadn’t realised how much I needed to be looked after by (slightly) older Italian female relatives and be fed homemade pasta. It’s been a few years. Early morning in the countryside brings fog over the hills and a surreal air to everything. As the sun climbs, I go for a walk with my cousin. As we trek uphill, and I try to hide how out of breath I am, I see strange tracks in the dried mud (we need rain here). I query them. Wolves, very probably, my cousin says. There are many round here, you can hear them at night. I swallow slowly; there are lots of these tracks. I am glad it’s daylight and look ahead at the woods where apparently the wolves sleep during the day.
