Fighting in a war is an expierience you will never understand unless you've actually done it. The anxiety of the next attack is excrutiating, the absolute fear that you will never make it home is always riding on your back, and the relief when it's all over is euphoric. I didn't know what to do with my feelings so I had begun to write. By fate, I had begun to do work as a free-lance writer and found myself to be quite good at it with the revenue to prove it. I could make a living for myself here and the more I wrote, the more I became uninterested in the United States. I lived in Italy most of the time and it was beautiful despite being broken by the war and by Mussolini's Fascist dictatorship.
For a good decade, I just traveled all over Europe while I wrote and it was definitely an era of peace in my life. I had the time that I needed to heal myself of the shit the war had done to me. Traveling made me realize that I was not the only one on a journey for healing and it was such a comfort to not feel so all alone. I did it all; had quiet morning walks on a spring morning in Paris, had tall beers in the afternoon in Berlin, and had wild nights in London and would do it all again within a months time. I wouldn't trade those ten years for anything.
By the time 1956 rolled around, I had begun to feel restless. I had gone back to Venice and realized that I had been all dried up. It's a scary thing for a writer to have nothing left to say. Truly disgusted with myself and the circumstances I found myself in, I decided maybe a nice walk around town would help ease my mind. It really was like any other walk with your first thought of how cold or warm it seemed but about five minutes into it your mind was clear.
That was until I heard church bells begin to chime. It was such a lovely sound and I couldn't exactly pinpoint as to why the sound made me feel so nostalgic. As I kept on walking, I realized there must have been a wedding because I could see a bride and groom step out onto the church steps. Other people walking down the street were stopping to help celebrate and I figured I would do the same. When I finally was facing the scene, I was speechless and it wasn't about the bride but of the little flower girl who had taken a seat on the steps. I could have sworn Scout Finch time traveled to be here to face me.
"Bella," I said to her as I had gotten my camera out of my coat pocket. Sounds mad to have a camera at the ready but as a writer I felt whenever I was inspired by a moment I could capture it on film to remember it by so I could write it down later.
"Bella," I said again. This time the little girl noticed me and the camera and she smiled. I snapped it at the perfect moment and knew that I had a golden picture. It wasn't long after that the little girl ran up the steps and back to the bride and groom, laughing all the way. She must have known she was cute.
I felt riled up by that moment and quickly walked back to my place. I knew I had to write now but it was for something completely different. It was not going to be a piece for work but it was going to be a letter for Scout, the girl I had forgotten. I had a dark room in my apartment for the pictures I took and I began to write as soon as the little girl's photo was developed. The only problem is that I remember hearing from a good pal of Jem's during the war that Scout was living in New York City. I go ahead with it anyway and put Atticus' address on the envelope. If I know Atticus, he will see to it that she gets it. My heart flutters as I tuck it in the mail pile. I had a feeling that something big was going to happen on Monday when I mailed that letter.