It is possible to write something on a Sunday afternoon after a Saturday spent in the sun. How much water should I drink today? is the question most frequently juxtaposed against the other one: how much does my life even matter? and its variants, which make me wonder how much anything I do matters, and what value I am to anyone other than myself (a question pondered so often that not much seems to get done, anyway).
It lingers until real responsibility crawls out of his room at 2:50 pm speaking an alien language which may be a mixture of the italian and french I try to teach him amidst all the english.
The "tap, tap, tap" of a wooden hammer is our soundtrack as we commence la sera, e devo salutare mio figlio Gian Lorenzo.
"Buona sera, Giovanni."
"Dada makes soup and pasta" is the first distinguishable phrase with which he graces me.
Ah, well then I matter as much as that soup and pasta must matter to him. Two things.
Unless the soup is made with pasta. Hmm. Pasta e fagioli - three words, yes, but only one course. Let me then measure the bowl from which I usually serve this dish, and calculate the volume of my worth.
(Monday afternoon edit: the volume of the bowl is 79 fl. oz.)
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