I miss the sound of the language being spoken from my sweet friends mouthes. Dramatic, animated, swinging through the ups and downs of a sentence, hanging onto the ends and bellowing the vowels. I miss how’d they’d speak to each other, and I miss how nicely they’d say my name. Not like here. Flat and sharp, ignoring the build up- and the high of the “i” which sits in the middle of my name. When Americans say it quickly- it sounds something like “Mossmo”. When it drops from the mouth of a speaker of the language, or a friend - it’s special. Each syllable is uttered with such care, and the slightest of pauses between each one for extra effect. I wish I could speak this beautiful language so carelessly, without even thinking of the placement of each pronoun or adjective. When fluent and smooth, it is the most beautiful song. So often I wish I could just tune into my own private radio station - and listen to my friends back in Florence just converse with one another. As I tune into the station, I forget about each individual word, subjects, and predicates, verbs and past tense, and I let it all wash over me. I let the beautiful melody of their voices carry me back.
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