I am awake far before dawn; I know it is the early night in bed, broken by dreams of running or running out of what is most precious, the softest of time.
Walks to the kitchen are interspersed with first trips, bruised toes against arrangements that never were before, broken boxes, piles of possessions hard, harsh, in value hollow. I am unsure if I am home.
My mother and I cook pasta, sit at the wooden table with our legs crossed away from each other, too sad to let the silence sit, to sip slowly. Instead we push down drawn delicacies, we know not to loiter in these moments that, admittedly, are harsh, that hurt.
Sicily was beautiful, a Babylon of sorts. The winds were certain, the water curled around the island's belly, a blue changling as simple as my eyes. It was at once a relief and a reminder. I was overly pleased with the pizza, red wine, garlicky pasta and perched mountains. It was empty of tourists, cold for the beach.
The salt, the fishermen, the fried cannolis paired with cappuccinos, even in kisses they brought tears to my eyes.
Julie tells me to write it all down. The hurt, the love, the loss, the hope: what I want isolated but in actuality is intertwined in my every day.
It is as much about mornings as mourning. Like my mother, I wake in a daze, time spaced in shorter intervals, with the fallacy, the feeling that I can pull back at life's leash and have him here.
I dared Tom's with Tess, still full with fried fat and the bitterness of egg creams. The Hungarians, I hope for, but I am held back not by what is broken, but rather the needles of the unknown or uncertain, what is underneath it all.
