Missing Italy

Missing Italy

A Story by Annette Lemma

Why does one miss? What makes the memory synapse with the emotions to create a physical feeling of longing deep in the core of your being that hurts and hugs at the same time?

I miss Italy, a country that I visited only once but dreamt about forever. I cannot say what I miss the most.

The Land as beautiful as the sea - every inch utilized for a purpose. The trees planted for fruit or nuts or shade; the fields of olives and sunflowers for oil and seeds. There is nothing as colorful or as juicy and delicious as a fig plucked for breakfast from a tree outside your window or the oil pressed from the olive that transforms unsalted bread into Holy Communion on your tongue. The mountains produce marble for sculptures and churches that entomb both saints and sinners. Everything has purpose and meaning. Nothing is wasted.

The people, content and creative, live here. They do not just work or exist. They take time every day to enjoy the God-given day to relax and be together with those they love or to be alone to dream. These are the people whose ancestors did not yearn for anything more than Italy. They were satisfied to stay and make the most of what they had.

The art was generated by these people. It is displayed to be appreciated and revered. Even the falling frescoes are not repaired. The beauty is evident in that which remains - a testimony to its greatness and the pride of a people who know the value of their treasures.

I miss the irony of the culture:
The graffiti as it appears on the walls adjacent the ruins; The billboards announcing a play "Roma é Gay" near the church that houses the body of a saint; Businessmen carrying purses; Women garbage collectors; Suits among the medieval stone; The fashionable clothing hanging on a clothesline; Sandal-boots; The hot days and the cool nights; The old people calling out "Serà" to passersby; The babies who cry in a universal language that spoke to me.

I miss this country after my first visit like one misses a first love. It has become a part of me and has changed me. I have feasted on its food and its treasures and I drank from its vines. It will be the one to which everything else is compared and the experience I will try to recapture everywhere I go.

© 2011 Annette Lemma


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Added on May 7, 2011
Last Updated on June 7, 2011

Author

Annette Lemma
Annette Lemma

Philadelphia, PA



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The first poem I enjoyed writing was an assignment. "Write a poem about a junk drawer", he instructed. Since then I have learned to see the value of observing and capturing on paper that which ot.. more..

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