Rough Drafts of Vacation
Rough Drafts of Vacation
If we went to New York, what would we do?
In New York, we would walk across the Brooklyn Bridge and scream away our troubles over the edge. Every day in New York we would run three miles through the shaded lanes of Central Park. I would smile in relief as we caught our breath among the pink flowers and plaques of quotations sprinkled throughout the Shakespeare Garden because I would believe that only healthy bodies could run so far and keep pace with your long strides. I would brush my auburn hair away from my sweat soaked face and close my eyes to focus on feeling of the rapid beating of my heart pulsing throughout my limbs - proof that I am alive.
We would devour crepes filled with chocolate sauce and crème and bought from men in carts while we sit on the edge of the Bethesda Fountain - an angel touching down to Earth that chose to land in New York. I would wonder if the way stone creature had her head bent towards the two of us meant she was guarding me or even healing the unseen ailments lurking inside my small frame. With full bellies, we would swirl and skip throughout the crowded, bustling streets of Time Square - our moves instructed by the differing beats of the various Broadway show tunes that would drift out of the numerous tourist traps that specialize in selling imitation Chinese art and bootleg “I HEART NY” t-shirts because it is not wrong to be eccentric in New York.
If we went to France, what would we do?
In France, we would eat a baguette a day. I would put butter and Swiss cheese on mine while you would simply pry the bread apart with your long, thin fingers. We would march up every step of the Eiffel Tower though our lungs would shriek with objections starting at the thirtieth step. We would wrap our tongues around foreign syllables like they were truffles. I would spout out the ineffective phrases I remember from high school that are not much actual use in France. Je t’aime. Tu est tres mignon. In France, I would not know the words “I’m dying” so you would never have to hear them. I would only teach you words like joli, amour, and coeur, and you would repeat them back, your full lips opening in slow motion as you attempt to capture the proper accent. You would use your newfound knowledge to describe the sharp featured, thin framed and well dressed European couples that stroll past us hand-in-hand as we sit in an outdoor café drinking café au lait though neither of us likes the bitter taste on our tongues because that is simply what you must do in France.
We would stumble over the long words found on thin menus for different entrees as the waiter would watch on with the amusement and contempt that people in France are infamous for. You would try the escargot - the slugs making a sickening slurping sound as your small fork rips them from their shell. I would scrunch my freckled nose in American disdain. Afterwards, you would insist on visiting the Notre Dame Cathedral so you could use all the previously useless information you learned in European History. You would point out the arches and flying buttresses and explain the role of Catholicism in France. I would light a candle in the cathedral that is filled with reverent whispers from the many foreign tongues of the tourists. I would murmur a prayer above the flickering flame, my small hands clenched so tight together my knuckles would bulge out and pale. Perhaps in France my prayer would fly faster to God’s ears.
If we went to Italy, what would we do?
In Italy, we would travel to the town of Boscia. I would search for the oldest resident to find if they knew a Leonard Boscia. I would tap my finger against the sepia colored photo of his unsmiling and round face and ask if they saw him before he sailed to America and began the family I would describe in my family tree project throughout elementary school. You would tell me you think I belong here in Italy where food and laughter are the only means of living because of my loud, shoulder shaking laugh and my curved body.
I would tell you the story of Artemisia Gentileschi - how they tightened tacks around her painter thumbs and yet she still created art. I would tell you that some in Italy believe a few of her paintings contain the blood that dripped from her hands during that painful experience. You would grimace in empathy and say that life in Italy with broken hands would be unbearable. I would murmur assent - I would never want to see you in pain so I bite down hard on my tongue to stop it from revealing any secrets.
I would show you her art - her Judith slaying Holofernes with the blood spurting from his severed neck or her Susanna shying away from the lecherous elders because those are the paintings I grew up to love. The sharp lines and rich color would inspire you.
You would sit in front of the Fontana di Trevi in Italy. There, in front of the grey Neptune erupting from the water and the tourists tossing wishes for true love in the rippling pond, your pen would suddenly become an inescapable part of your body. In Italy, it would be inspired to scratch, sweep and dip across the rough parchment of your aging sketchbook. As you would struggle to transfer the moving images of Lucrezia poisoning unsuspecting politicians and Catherine de Medici weeping for home into stationary poses, I would wander through the uneven side streets in Italy. I would be transfixed by the crumbling architecture, trying to date how old the buildings must be. It would be when I was returning the smile of a ruddy cheeked, dark featured child that the coughing would rip apart my lungs. I would stumble over the cobblestone, my hand shaking upon the rough walls of the alley until breath returned to me in Italy. You would never know of the moments I spent gasping for air in the foreign country I would desperately want to call home.
I would return to the fountain where the only difference would be new tourists making the same wishes and instead I would whisper to you the beauty I found in Italy. An orange sunset bouncing off a row of laundry dangling above the ground, a street performer with black hair to his shoulders that shimmered as his body moved to his own music and whose voice soothed me simply because of the Italian accent. Your pen would move faster as you smile in response to every new image you are given to paint. It would be you who would belong in Italy because you are a producer of great beauty while I am a mere consumer.
If we stayed here, what would we do?
Here is where we cannot escape into a foreign culture. Here is where I would be rooted in reality. Here is the grey sky dripping depression onto the city streets as I stare out the window of our small apartment. Here is the silence between us in conversations when I cannot tell you where I go for hours. Here is where I tell you the story of my grandfather who never told his family he had cancer until they found his cold body laying in bed and the doctor consoled that at least his wife and children had been prepared. Here is where I wish you would read between the lines of my family’s history. Here is where I would hope you understood that I was not raised to admit vulnerability. Here is where I would lay my trembling hands upon your warm shoulders. Here is where the sound of ambulances racing down the streets would draw my thoughts away from our lips meeting. Here is where I would wonder aloud when was the last time the sun dared to peek out from behind her dark cloud covers. Here is where I would grow weaker and my plump body - the one that belongs in Italy - would grow thin. Here is where your brown eyes would crinkle with worry, where your tall body would wrap around mine at night because you could feel the bed shake with my silent weeping. Here is where you would ask me, tugging anxiously at the bottom of your button-down flannel shirt as you avert your gaze, about what is happening. Here is where I answer in vague terms about problems at work or with my aging mother. Here is where I would slowly collapse in our kitchen after trying to heat up leftover manicotti from the cheap Italian restaurant down the street - my knees hitting first so I stay there dazed a few moments like a wounded soldier before the rest of my body just topples over and I can only lay there waiting. Here is where I will sob because I do not know how to live with a mind so vivid held captive by a dying body. Here is where you stand over me with your hands marked with paint - red, green, brown, purple - but your body covered with a black suit for your corporate work. Here is where I will see the terror in your eyes as you help me to my feet, your hands clenching my elbows with a strength I never knew you would possess. Here is where I would wonder if that is the grip you will use when you are a pallbearer as I try to ignore your frantic pleas. Here is where you would sit me down, and we would both cry with tears leaking from our eyes and mixing with the snot from our noses because we both know what my next words will be.
Here is where I would lean in, push away your brown hair and whisper the truth into your ear.