And so, here we have it.
Deciding to go home (again) has spun me into a dizzy emotional carnival ride. I’ve been told I am “quitting the country” and most days this does feel like breaking up with a place. I listen to the advice of my mother “take it one month at a time” and my friends “you can always return” and my boyfriend “you need more than being another working poor of Italy” and know that they are wise.
Unfortunately, they do not have to think about packing.
And having been here on and off for almost 3 years, I have a lot to pack.
Envisioning all of the tokens of my life here, lined up on the spare bed with my suitcase open, I immediately feel sick. Not just sick, full. After Thanksgiving dinner full. Eating a kebab and drinking a beer full. Dark chocolate and potato chips at 3 a.m. full. I want to vomit.
And that desire has lead me here to this working Saturday with a bit of clarity and some regret (regret being the ugliest word in the English language). I have to loose weight. Not just physically, though that would help, but all of my items are weighing me down with their importance (real or imagined). So I have to let it go. And not just them, all of the little things I haven’t and will not get to. I want to let them all go. Book ideas, sets of sheets, fantastic novels, travel plans, beauty products, little stones gathered here and there, tacky jewelry, market bought clothes, chance encounters, familiarity afar, tolling bells — I just need to let them go. Because the memories and the friendships and the honest connections I’ve made with this place and most of all the bizarrely beautiful love that I’ve found, well that is more than I need.
And for once, I’m going to trust my memory and life to keep giving the good stuff back to me.