Il Mio Santuario
Rossella Maxwell placed the colander in the sink and opened the window. Hesitantly, she held out her willowy hand over the fiori, splashes of bright color in full mid-summer bloom. As the tall, dark-haired woman waited with hand outstretched, the smell of steaming pasta drew her eight-year-old son to the kitchen. The violet-eyed youth, noting his mother's distraction, quickly snuck over to the table and silently pilfered a rigatoni.
A drop of water landed on Rossella's palm with a splash, and she shook it off, withdrew her hand, and closed the window. "Enrico," she sighed. "Don't go to Feli's house today, va bene? It's going to rain..."
Rossella turned around just as Enrico was about to stuff another rigatoni into his mouth. Caught in the act, there was nothing the child could do but stand there, smiling innocently. Rossella laughed, and tenderly wiped a stray bit of ricotta off of her son's cheek. "Try to wait until dinner, mio piccolo ladro," she said jokingly.