Script quote with small aeroplane design

The rain has been coming down on the market since six, so the stallholders have dragged their tarpaulins over the fish and the flower buckets, and the whole square smells of wet cardboard and oranges. I am sat on an upturned crate beside Signor Ferri's spice barrels, which he lets me use as long as I keep the coffee away from his pecorino. You told me to write when I had something to say. Here is something: the aeroplane is booked. Friday, the early one out of Fiumicino.

Mum's voice in my head says what she always says, that a sensible woman finishes her training before she starts running off into the sky. I wrote and told her the old man who sells postcards on the corner had said the thing about living deeper, and she laughed down the phone and said that was the sort of wisdom a man gets when he has never once left his own street. I didn't argue. She is probably right and I am probably going anyway.

Ferri handed me a paper cone of chestnuts an hour ago without a word, which is how he says goodbye. The rain has eased to a thin drizzle that makes every awning drip in a neat line. I keep thinking how little of the world I have actually touched: this square, the bus to the sea, your kitchen table. Deeper, not longer. I have decided I would rather have ten years with my hands in things than forty years watching from the window.

Write to me care of the post office in Trastevere, or don't, and I will know you are cross. Either way I am leaving you the postcards. Keep the one with the plane on it.

Love, Lena