Sometimes I wish my house was next to a lake, to hear the cry of frogs during the night. Like those summers I spent, as a young girl, at the sea. The window of my bedroom was left open at night, to catch any slight passage of fresh air slipping down from the close hills.
Those were the good times when no air conditioning existed, and windows still served as channels of percolation between sleep and the outer - vigilant - world. The harsh steps of a night walker in the street, the crackle of a tree hit by a blow of sea breeze, or, indeed, the crispy lullaby sung by frogs gathered in the garden nextdoor. Their melancholic song gently cradled my dreams, while my body rested among white linen sheets. The skin still burning from the sun of a day spent on the seashore.
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