Turin, Again

I have made this journey five times and I could do it in my sleep, and one year I more or less did.

The flight on the Thursday evening. The hotel two minutes from Porta Nuova, room six, because room six is always free in February. Then the eight fifty-two from the small platform at the end, twenty-two minutes, and eleven minutes uphill past a garage and a shuttered bar and a wall with the same piece of graffiti on it since 2019.

The gate is iron and it drags. There is a tap on the left with a green can chained to it that nobody has ever stolen. My grandmother is nine rows in, on the second terrace, where you can see the whole valley if you turn round, which nobody there is in a position to do.

At the foot of her stone there is another stone, about…