Different

 The town is quiet save one house at the end of Isnello where the faint, muted bass of American music radiates through thick stone walls. I am light on my feet, but heavy in my heart. I mask my vulnerability as I have little interest in creating connections and every interest in moving my body as swiftly as possible away from the anxious embrace of light conversation. As I pass through town, there are scant signs of life. The sun is out, still inching toward its peak position in the vast, blue, Sicilian sky. Four men gather at the bar in Quattro Cannoli. Each sits in a small plastic chair, facing the street as if they've been patiently waiting for me to walk by. They don't speak to each other. They stare. I smile. We exchange pleasantries.

Connection is made but it may as well have been silence for the lack of stirring in my soul. I wonder how it was for them. Some days I cut through the back streets to avoid their gaze, but today I am feeling generous in my assumption of the good nature and curiosity of men. Most days not so much. Though none in this town are so observant, my daily mood can be measured by my precise movements around them. 

These are the things I want to remember when I'm gone from here. Just like I remember the night time glow of slender, mid-century-style numbers decorating the sides of the houses near campus, and the sweet smell of lightly rotting honeysuckle in the still, San Diego air. These two places are immeasurably different, yet my sagging heart drinks in the sensations of each with equal sincerity. 

The heaviness I feel for America mimics the abrupt ending of an abusive relationship, where the trauma that bonds me threatens to forever hold fast to my aching core. I tell myself that I wanted things to be different, but I couldn't change him. It had to end. I know this feeling won't last, and that something new will soon appear, but it doesn't ease the physical pain of sadness. I must exist in this grief, regardless of what I wish he was, until something beautiful is borne of the weight of my wanting memories.