Lonely Planet

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

As close as that pint of ice cream here 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 strangely 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 and numb, standing in line

with laughing school children buying afternoon snacks, old women purchasing chicken

and onions for supper. Then 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, later on a couple of drinks

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

my wish to have a beer at a neighborhood bar I’d read about in the 'Lonely Planet' guidebook 
to Lithuania.

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 together, 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.