From Europe, With Love

I wanted something, I wanted. I could not have it.

It was as close as that pint of ice cream is right

now in the freezer, the kitchen 15 feet away.

Instantly she’d felt like home. No, her third floor

apartment on a chilled November day is what

felt like home. The small kitchen overlooking

a church and field, the warm bath after the long flight

and drive, trout with beetroot soup, cherry wine and

homemade chocolate cake for our first dinner, how tall

and pretty she was in person at the bleak airport

that reminded me of a rust-belt bus station. I thought

“I’m glad I came.”  Here, comfort and belonging were redolent.

Weeks later, buying the card downtown, I was embarrassed

standing in line with laughing school children getting

afternoon snacks, old women with meat and onions

for supper. Over the blue bridge and up the long hill one last

time, placing the card on the kitchen table, then a couple

of beers our final night while she watched patiently. Two

weeks’ later my new underwear and socks purchased

for the trip arrived in a brown envelope, a small candle

and note tucked within, something about keeping the light.

I’ll eat the Italian gelato, not sure I kept the candle.