Le Lavoratrici dell'Amore

In a small, timeless Italian town by the sea, the children would roam and play in the street where the local prostitute held her corner. Told to stay away, the children made a game of her. They would gather to see who among them could get closest before being shooed away by the hawk-eyed shopkeep. In tight little circles, they chose the first to go. One by one, they stole down towards the corner where she worked, hoping to outsmart fear and shopkeep alike. In time, the game became tradition; boys skipped school to test their courage and wit. There was always one who made it through. He would stop as soon as she stood over him, her hair wilder than any schoolteacher he had ever sat beside in detention, the thick black mascara masking the warmth behind her eyes. She would toss her cigarette and, in a half-motherly embrace, bring the boy into the folds of her disheveled skirt.

As the years passed, adolescence shaped their curiosity and gave the game a new name.

As a writer, I wandered those same streets in search of the muse, looking for the details that could reignite the excitement of the game. These workers of love and passion were skilled in the art of inspiration, and they knew their worth. I could only dream of finding that same spark in the world around me. To be lost in ecstasy with another and forget both life and death. For that moment alone, they were immortal.

The model, the musician, the actor, and the prostitute all do what the writer seeks to do. They awaken feeling in those who come searching for it. I could only hope that, by brushing against the hem of their art, I too might learn to give such inspiration through words.

And this is where you, Drew, sweet angel of brief and lasting salvation, became the fire. In a season of emotional exile, spent in a desert of conflict and chaos, you were willing to play house and offer the relief only a lover could, in the way a lover writes to call her soldier home. Your words soothed my head like fingers brushing through my hair as a boy yet again. Your loving words became an offer of photographs. I accepted, if only to feel the oasis once in this desert. Your photographs stirred both body and spirit, and for a brief moment, I was no longer a soldier, but a lover willing and able to love. It was a part of me I thought I had left behind, as if distance could spare it from this desolate land. When the veil lifted from my eyes, I saw again the details and wonders writers and poets pray to see.

I can only honor this blessing of insight and inspiration by making it worthy of writing. This is the truth of what you gave this once lost soul in the desert.