Per Cuore Mio

For My Heart

One of the first “selfies” I ever took. With a real camera!

Today is our 15th wedding anniversary. I wrote this story for you, cuore mio, the love of all my lifetimes. Ti adoro! Tanto! Tanto!

YOMO

I’ve flown high in the sky for a taste of nostalgia. Missing a time and a place I have never known. My husband knows this. He gets me.

For the past fourteen years, I’ve traveled with Peter to the place where he grew up, Rimini, Italy. Each year we Vespa his familiars. His strade, his panifici, his Adriatic air and eventually these streets and scents became my familiars too.

It was love at first sight for me - the man and the city. Peter’s big heart and gorgeous everything. Rimini’s tiny cars and grande trees. Our second home greets us with loud CIAOS! and with birds that never stop singing, Bentornato!

I have a gift for getting lost. Like a full moon on holiday, I often ride a rollercoaster sunbeam into Earth’s other. With every wonder I have, I am instantly delivered.

I eat things I don’t usually eat when I’m here. I eat bread and cheese and try not to overthink how long my cleanse will need to last when I return to the States. When we shop at our local market, I choose classic Italian products. Today I had an Italian yogurt for my morning colazione. When Peter saw it, he said, “YOMO! I grew up on that.”

I take the last smooth spoonful and close my eyes.

When I open them, a strong scent of Jasmine fills the air. The Lucio Battisti 1970s song, Ancora Tu, is playing. I’m in the cucina of Peter’s youth! My kaleidoscope mind turns and shifts endless patterns of “Is this what it felt like to be you?” Caffe-flavored, hazelnut hints, drinkable imprints of forever summers, bare feet hijinx, sun so bright I could cry. Or is it something else that’s making me cry? I run to a mirror and look at my reflection. I’m an Italian boy with golden hair and hazel eyes. I recognize this bel ragazzino! I’ve seen pictures. It’s you. I’m you. I’m six years old, impossibly cute Peter. I feel a hushed confidence. A sweet joy. The entire city is my playground, and I know it. I look around and recognize that armoire. It’s a 1928 Gio Ponti L. Brusotti piece. It now lives in our apartment. I go over and touch it, more fascinated with my tiny boy hand than the furniture. I need to stay focused. The YOMO brought me here, but I have no idea how long it’ll let me stay. It was, after all, a super small jar.

I hear Mamma yelling from upstairs, “Pietro! Dove sei?” I’m worried she might sense that I’m not you. And my Italian goes out the window when I’m stressed, so I don’t take the chance. I see the open door to the villa and bolt out into the world, into your world, and I run to where I imagine you would have wanted to go - to the sea! My, your, our little legs are fast and on purpose. People wave as I pass, “Ciao, Pietro!” I guess it’s okay for me to be so young and out on my own. This glorious feeling —it’s unusual for me, but I embrace it - I feel so utterly safe and free. I’m being held closely, but lightly, softly, by this seaside town who knows I don’t need a chaperone.

I arrive at the spiaggia, and the warm sand tickles my toes. I laugh so hard I think I might burst. I run straight into the sea, my sea, your sea, our sea, and we keep going, the water so low and calm, it won’t reach our head for a long time, we know this, so we dive into the water and swim with the Medusas, but we’re not afraid. They won’t sting us because we’re too euphoric, too unfettered, too new to be stung.

We come up for air, float on our back and notice a cloud in the shape of a heart.

Buon anniversario, cuore mio!

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