The tall, austere cabinet lines the wall with ornate dark-wood carvings of vines and fruit. Evening light streams through the white curtain from the grey cloud covering and the wet world outside.
Boisterous voices, melodic and chimed like chrystal wrap around a double bass, violins and timpani drums. Opera, from Arena in Verona city, recorded and played from a mere disc spinning in the CD player.
He nestles his face into my neck as my hand wraps around his. I side-step in time to the music, spin and twirl in an attempt to mimic a timeless ballroom waltz.
He is peaceful, content and smiles when I spin us around and around in fast motion.
When each song ends, he rocks back and forth impatiently, longing for the next track to start and to move to the rhythm once again.
My son, my son. I cradle his head with my free hand. It is perfectly round, reminds me of my father. I smirk as I recall my father boasting about how his head was perfectly round; he would boast with a cheesy, jovial grin.
My son, my son. He smells like... my son. A smell I never knew yet know so well like he has always been with us.
He has grown so much in the past few weeks. I have learnt to call him "Mio Uomino" = 'My little man". He is a little man.
He smiles and shrieks with delight as I spin him around and let him arch back dramatically to match the tone of the opera. I lift him up above my head and then bring him down swiftly until his feet almost touch the floor, then lift him back up to my arms. He holds my hand and rests his other hand on my shoulder, ready to dance. His Nonna Tina in Australia taught him this.
We dance cheek to cheek and I can feel his cheek rise as he smiles. It is so soft. Suddenly my mind races to the future. I imagine dancing with him one day when I am older and he closer to my age now.
So proud, as I am now.