From Europe, With Love

I wanted something, I wanted. I could not have it. 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 walk-up apartment in a strange

yet familiar part of the planet on a chilled November day

felt like home. The small kitchen overlooking a church and field,

the warm bath after the long flight and an hour driving

to her town through drizzle past bare trees,

then 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 Eastern European

airport that reminded me of a rust-belt bus station. We hugged

and I thought “I’m glad I came.” Here in Loreta’s small home,

comfort and belonging were redolent of family holidays

when dad remained calm, even friendly, unusually tender.

Weeks later, buying the card for her downtown, I felt awkward, numbly

standing in line with laughing school children buying afternoon snacks,

old women purchasing chicken and onions for supper. The long walk

over the blue bridge past the funicular and up the steep hill one last time,

placing the card on the kitchen table, then a couple of drinks our final night

while she sat across the table and watched patiently. No, more like tolerated

my wish to have a beer at a neighborhood bar I’d read about

in my ‘Lonely Planet’ guidebook.

Two weeks’ later my new underwear and socks bought for the trip,

forgotten that final dark morning in a dresser drawer next to the new bed

that we never slept in, arrived in a brown envelope at my mailbox,

a small candle and note tucked within, something about keeping the light.

I dished up a big bowl of gelato, not sure I kept the candle.