Past  The cold of a winter morning engulfed in quiet white fog. Colour sucked out, to be revealed later as it lifts and draws away. But for now, it blankets the land in stillness, in calm grey silhouettes fading out rapidly in the foreground. The fog is a momentary lapse of time - a mindless point of interruption between past present and future.
Present  Three generations of women working in the kitchen making gnocchi for lunch. The elder woman, my husband's mother, combining potatoes and flour to make a dough, Pia sitting on the bench helping her add flour laughing away - the two of them laughing at the frivolity of the other. I talk, and roll the gnocchi pieces across a fork end as they are handed to me, and Pia joins in doing her own deconstructivist abstract interpretation of rolling gnocchi. They are good, like they always are.
Future  Late in the afternoon we sit waiting in a hospital room while my husband's brother lies in a bed, his breathing difficult and painful, and a morphine haze surrounding him. Gentle talk occasionally - short, direct - but gentle, and exhausting as we try and catch up on the speed with which all this has happened, the aggression with which his body has been overtaken. There's a conversation about to be had when two Dr's walk in the room that we all need to happen, and we all know what will be said, but which will change our family forever. We will cry. And hold each other close. And we will return home and tell two parents their son is dying. Not today. Not next week. But soon.
Then we will talk. And talk. And cry.
And laugh. We will do this with dignity.