The Wise Old Sicilian

      He stands proud on this hill, looking down.
      Golden, perhaps from the morning sun, he seems to glow. His streets wind up, down, left, right and back again. Curving like smiles and frowns, each road with the ability to choose a mood.
      The term “go straight” takes on new meaning here, for there is rarely a straight street. But, turn enough times, and déjà vu. All roads lead to Rome. Eventually the old man leads you back to where you came.
      Up above, a woman hangs laundry. White sheets and lace curtains drip drop down two stories; the sweet, fresh scent of her fabric softener flooding the area. From there she can see across the street and down onto a rooftop where a group of men are repairing the old clay tiles that are worn and grey from the sun. No one flinches at the beeping of toy-like cars that bump through steep and skinny streets.
      Cracked peach stucco walls rise up from cobblestone pathways. Each fissure a wrinkle of time like laugh lines, or worry lines. Wooden doors are worn. They stand demanding reverence, their wisdom growing with each grain of wood revealed by chipping paint.
      Castelbuono has seen much. Like a wise old Sicilian man.