Eighteen Years Old - Unnamed Narrator

Unnamed Narrator 19

I was up early on that morning as if with a private alarm clock in my brain, and it was one of the most beautiful young days I’ve ever seen. The dome of the heavens, when I looked out up at it over my geraniums, was pale pink glowing blue, with nothing in it but a few stray leaves of cloud, lit up gold and green by sun you couldn’t see behind the houses. The air was fresh, blown right in from the sea, and there wasn’t a sound except from hundreds of thousands of pairs of lungs, still slumbering there in Napoli. Peace, perfect peace, I thought, as I sucked in the warm air of my native city. And it was also, as it happened, my nineteenth birthday.