Mancante - Italian. Adj. meaning missing, absent, incomplete
When he stands alone outside the Vatican, he thinks of her.
The morning is early and the sun is strong for September. His wife has ducked into an already crowded book shop and he is momentarily left on his own.
He people-watches the bright square bustling with locals and tourists. The first three years he considered himself among the latter. He doesn't think there is enough time left in his life for him to become the former. Though he smiles gamely when his wife blissfully tells him that this is their forever, he can't bring himself to believe her; not when he left his heart 4,280 miles away in Manhattan.
It's been five years since they left the states. Nearly four more since he left her.
Italy has been good to his family.
Eli has flourished, fluent in the language and the lifestyle. Kathy is happier than he has ever seen her and he wonders what it means that he can't remember the last time he truly felt the same.
The job, the travel, and the different pace of life all have kept him occupied and his mind from straying too often back across the Atlantic. Even though half of his mother's ancestors called this place their home, he knows he never will. The last decade of rootlessness has taught him that while this country isn't home, Manhattan isn't either. The city of New York isn't where he belongs, what draws him back to that sense of familiarity.
It's her. She is - she was his homeland and he has exiled himself.
For good.
Rome is steeped in antiquity, in mythology, and legends so he thinks it is fitting that is what she has become to him. A cross between revered ancient history, a guardian angel in a holy place, and his imaginary best friend.
He feels a corner of his mouth lift at the thought of what she would say to him if she knew sometimes he pretends she is with him, beside him. He wonders if she would roll her eyes in affection or annoyance.
In his head, it's always in love.
He turns, slipping his hands into the pockets of his light coat and squints against the gleam of the sun on the age-old architecture. The place is beautiful, the city stunning and yet nothing manages to take his breath away faster than the thought of holding her hand. He squeezes his fist inside his pocket as if the motion could mimic the feeling of her fingers intertwined in his own.
You would love it.
When his wife reaches for his arm from behind, he jumps at her touch and passes his startled response off with a grin and a shake of his head. He wonders if it's possible to be haunted by someone who isn't dead.
When he stands beside his son inside Saint Peter's, he thinks of her. He wonders if she knows when he genuflects in the holiest of basilicas in the Western world, it is her for whom he prays.
He watches Eli's wide brown eyes take in The Pieta before them. Michelangelo's commissioned masterpiece of the Blessed Mother cradling the broken body of her Son to her chest.
It doesn't escape him that she was the first one to cradle his son to hers.
He wonders what it would be like to watch a second set of perfect brown eyes study the sculpted statue. He wonders if she would weep for the absolute surrender etched for all eternity on Mary's face, if she would lean near and press her cheek to his shoulder as if just taking it all in has brought her closer to him. He wonders if she would let him touch her, slip an arm around her waist, and hold her through her awe.
The sculpture would pale in comparison to the treasure he held in his hands.
You would love it.
When he looks up again, his son has left his side, but she is still with him.
When he stands in line for dessert, he thinks of her.
Gelato, Kathy calls it. He still thinks it's ice cream.
He orders for his family: tiramisu piled high on a cone for Kathy (she won't sleep for a week with all that sugar, but who is he to tell her?), dark chocolate chip for Eli, and her favorite: orange creamsicle for himself.
You would love it.
He thinks he would have to grab some extra napkins because she would spill from laughing at something he has said. He wonders if she would let him steal a bite before she ate it all or if she would covet her cup the way he does her.
He wonders if she knows he has stopped asking for forgiveness from the Italian priests. He isn't sorry for missing her and he thinks his chances at absolution are better if he doesn't apologize for something he isn't penitent about.
When his wife asks him for a taste of his orange dream after she has finished her own tiramisu, he can't bear to give her what doesn't belong to him.
When he stands at the Trevi Fountain, he thinks of her.
He wonders if she has ever been here, to this glittering wishing pool of coins.
This glorious water source that once existed to sustain life in Rome is now a sight-seers hub and a motion-picture worthy backdrop on the daily walk to their apartment.
Home, Kathy calls it. He doesn't respond.
Instead, he watches their son snap a few selfies to send to his friends. He wonders if living so close to this world famous landmark has made him blasé about its impressiveness.
You would love it.
He wonders if she would search her purse for pennies to fulfill the folklore of the fountain. He learned the legend shortly after coming here for the first time, but he is sure that she doesn't know the specifics of it and he would have to instruct her.
One penny for a return, two for a return and for love, three for a return, for love, and for marriage in the city where he stands. Thinking of her.
He thinks she would laugh when he spun her around to face him, her back to the water. She would listen with a growing amused smile as he explained the procedure: one coin at a time in her right hand, to toss over her left shoulder.
He wonders if she knows that he doesn't need pennies because she is the manifestation of every wish he has ever made.
When he stands alone on their terrace at dusk, overlooking the palazzo, he thinks of her.
He wonders if her hair is long and would tangle in the slight evening breeze, or if she has cut it and it would skim against her chin when she glanced up and caught him staring. Her perfect skin wrapped in a sundress, warmed by last visages of the dying light, would cover in goosebumps under his gaze and she would toss him a playfully exasperated look he would return in earnest, smirking at her against the rim of his wine glass.
He would take a generous sip and pass it to her, tangle her fingers with his own in the exchange. He wonders if her mouth tastes more like their history, like orange juice, spearmint gum, and coffee, or their present and this deep burgundy vintage they now share. She would catch him staring at her lips and she would ever so gently threaten to push him from the balcony if he tried anything. His laughter would peal like the bells from the basilica three blocks east.
You would love it. He thinks. He tells her in his head.
There is a freedom with her here, an openness. He laughs louder, breathes easier, sleeps better when she is beside-
He doesn't hear the sliding glass door slip along its track or Kathy's footfalls on the balcony. He doesn't know she is behind him listening to his heavy swallow, his whisper of her name into the growing darkness.
His "Olivia" on the lazy night wind.
Author's Note: I couldn't stop thinking about The Park and The Talk and "I can't believe you lived in Rome."
"This great apartment, terrace overlooking this fifteenth century palazzo. You woulda loved it."
Reference to Taylor Swift's "Exile" does not belong to me, but you can't convince me it wasn't written for them.
Regrettably, I do not speak the beautiful Italian language and so please forgive me/correct me if I've made any mistakes in the translation of the title of this story.
This is born of my absolute outpouring of love for what we've been given. Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading xo