JD Devine

By: JD Devine

The early morning vaporetto rocked against its dock, creaking against the worn wooden pylons as the briny scent of the lagoon drifted through the air. Caterina emptied her pockets on the old marble counter of the Enoteca, her grandmother’s old wine bar. Keys clicked on the marble—the heavy brass one for the front door, the slim silver key for the wine cellar, the modern steel key for her apartment. Her phone clanked down next to the keys, then the red Vaporetto pass, and finally a few coins sang against the stone. But not the locket. She touched her neck as her heart stumbled. The locket’s absence felt like a cold space on her skin; she had worn it every day since her grandmother’s funeral last spring.

         Through the arched windows, pigeons strutted across water-stained stones squawking to each other, their iridescent necks flashing purple and green in the early morning light. The autumn air hung heavy with sea-salt, thick enough to taste. The water lapped at the foundations, the city’s ancient lullaby.

Caterina retraced her morning steps: past the pastry shop where children pressed their noses against displays of sweet fried dough and cookies, over the Rialto Bridge where vendors arranged masks with gold leaf and feathers. She headed to the Rialto Market where fishermen were arranging seafood on a bed of ice, their voices echoing off centuries-old stone columns.

         Caterina let out a heavy sigh, realizing the locket could be anywhere. She’d walked to the fruit stall that morning, buying fresh figs from a vendor who talked about her grandmother’s weekly visits. She’d stopped at the flower shop just to look, then sat on her favorite bench in the St. Mark’s Square where a violinist played classic melodies for money tossed into his old worn velvet cap.

The ancient buildings glowed rose-gold in the morning light. Canopies billowed with vibrant colored fabric, a stark contrast to the weathered stones. A group of art students had set up their easels along the waterfront, capturing the way the light danced on the ever-changing surface of the lagoon.

         “Miss?” The elderly newsstand vendor waved her over. His kiosk overflowed with local and international newspapers and watercolor prints of St. Mark’s Basilica. “You look troubled.”

         “I lost something,” Caterina said. She described the locket. Behind him, a waiter in a crisp white jacket balanced a tray of small wine glasses and plates of sweet scones, weaving between the tables at an outdoor restaurant.

         The elderly man pointed toward the gondola crossing, where the boatmen in striped shirts readied their vessels. “A young woman found a locket this morning. She left it with Marco, at the flower shop.”

         The flower stall blazed with color—lavender, peonies, tulips, and gladioli. The aroma of coffee from the café next door mixed with the salted air.

         Marco, who had supplied flowers for the Enoteca since Caterina was small, smiled as she approached. “I was wondering when you would come by.” He reached beneath his counter and pulled out the locket.

         Before he could hand it over, Caterina hesitated. A woman walked past with a rolling cart full of groceries from the market—artichokes and purple lettuce. On the corner, an elderly man in a worn cap animatedly discussed the morning’s weather with a shop owner, their hands moving as they spoke.

         “Could you—” Caterina drew a shaky breath. “Leave it here? It belongs to this place as much as it does to me.” She thought of how much her grandmother loved to watch the comings and goings of this place.

         Marco’s eyes brightened as he hung the locket on a hook behind his stall, next to the small San Marco medallion, the city’s patron saint that had watched over his flowers for decades. The bells of St. Mark’s Campanile rang with its green-spired top, echoing through the narrow alleyways, sending pigeons into the sky.

         Caterina bought a bundle of tulips—her grandmother’s favorite—and walked back to the Enoteca. The morning light rose behind the dome on St. Mark’s Basilica. Past the tobacco shop with its bright blue sign, a woman walked her dog across the stone bridge, scarf rippling in the breeze.

         Inside the Enoteca, she arranged the tulips in a small glass vase and placed them on the marble counter. The early regulars would arrive soon, ordering their morning wine and discussing the headlines in La Nuova Venezia. Through the windows, she watched her neighborhood wake: the rumble of delivery boats, the call of gondoliers, the rhythmic splash of oars, and the clanking of heels on the stone.

Life moved in circles, like the Adriatic tides in the lagoon, like the rhythm of the city itself—losing and finding, letting go and holding on, each ending making room for a new beginning.