Fluttuare'The clean, cold sensation of milk washing over my tongue. There are birds singing and the light is filtered through green leaves.I don't remember this one.I'm in a stone cottage, a glass in my hand, a piece of brown bread in front of me on a wood plate. Heat radiates from the right. I turn my head and see an old woman in a worn cotton dress. She's my grandmother. The thought doesn't carry the tang of surprise; but seems natural. 'Thanks,' I say, and take the plate with me outside. 'Mind the hole,' I think, just as my foot steps slightly aside, missing a squirrel burrow by inches.A slight flapping sound catches my ear. I look up into the deep blue sky. A giant balloon, rigging snapping in the chill spring breeze, floats gently under the puffy clouds. The ship hangs below, casting a shadow over the new-sprouted grass. Its hull is painted with bright colors, the name written along the midline. The sailors are leaning idly against the polished wood railing; one tips his red cap to me.