You Over There, You
There you were on my ancient doorstep, late, or early, unannounced, in the thick black coat I bought you for Christmas. Of course, you were on your way, but when would you arrive? As always, no phone. Me, no extra-key or place to hide it, only two days into my teaching abroad, Florence sodden, dark, full of shadows and confusion. But you convinced the smoking college students on the cobblestone street—who knew me as professor mom— to let you through the first two doors, and then you were at mine, a one, two knock. Bearded, cold, smiling. It was February, and you’d landed at Heathrow, taken a bus to the City of London airport. Then the flight and travel path went something like Frankfurt to Macedonia. Macedonia! You huddled on a frozen hill in the coat and in a down sleeping bag. Then to a rickety communist era train to Thessaloniki and on to Athens. Next a port town I can’t remember, maybe Patras, and a night ferry to Ancona and another train to Bologna and back to Florence until you found my building with directions jotted on a ragged scrap of ferry napkin. Long ago, you and I were alone together in the small house, your father student teaching in another town, coming home on weekends. It was you and me, day after day, me too young to mother properly, me in charge of you, already smarter with a wicked baby smile. But there we were in the dark mornings, the slog of the day. We went to every free Wednesday at the merry-go-round, every park. You and me together in the nighttime with fevers. Here, in Florence, in the medieval building, in the odd apartment, you and me again, planning meals of roasted eggplant and brocolo romanesco, walking to the store pulling the cart behind us. You and me in Pisa, Lucca, Roma, and Napoli. The ferry trip to Procida, the walk across the island to eat at the restaurant where Il Postino was filmed. Then the journey around and back to the dock, the man who opened the bag of oranges, beckoned us to take one, two, more, both of us eating while we strolled to the boats. Wandering Florence’s churches, the nunnery, that half hour of echoing song. The Zeffirelli Museum, no other patrons on that rainy afternoon, we two sitting in Dante’s Inferno, an animated show drawn by the director. Hell was wild with color, fluid, beautiful. The Uffizi, Boboli Gardens, finally getting you a phone. One Sunday walking up the hill to Fiesole, each of us eating a whole pizza at the crossroads bar. Walks before bed to get the water from the Piazza della Signoria spigots, fresh and con gas, talking about free will and metaphors. You are a man now, not a baby, grey in your hair, a man caught up in his life. Italy could never happen again, me free for months, without husband, you free, always, throwing off rules, our expectations, searching only for love. Late in the trip, that day in April, you brought your newly beloved to the apartment, we three hiking to the Piazzale Michelangelo, you both looking out toward the city, your arm around her thin shoulders, me behind you now, taking the shot. Me still behind you, remembering, holding this precious cup of time, you, as you’ve always been, so unique, so impossible, so wonderful, you and me over there, you and me over, you over there, you.
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Source : An Epic Mother-Son Reunion in Italy
