SAPLING Sunday mornings, Mom attends mass at St. Ambrose Church while Dad takes me to High Park where I play in the garden of God’s splendour. The crisp air is salty with a cooling breeze from the lake. The earth beneath our feet emanates summer’s stored heat. I feed the geese and mallards at Grenadier Pond mouldy Italian bread, line up for my turn on the slide, and swing high to fly away like a sparrow – aiming for the moon that one time it hung in the fading turquoise…
Read more
Despite my frequent trips to Italy, I consciously decided never to learn the language. With blissful ignorance, I always preferred…
What better way to pay homage to a rich cultural heritage than with a compelling film? Road to the Lemon…
Toronto, May 4, 2019 – The winners of the 2019 Accenti Writing and Photo contests were announced at the Accenti…
I was born in central Italy, in a beautiful green valley. In the summer, the fields were irrigated from the…
Mum would take us out for a roll in the double pram, dressed identically in well-sucked pink jumpsuits, resembling newborn…
Advertisements
