You may feel the need to commit suicide if death is truly your goal, but on the azure dusted shores of the Amalfi Coast, where the isle of Capri sits like a glistening mermaid, with perfect pouting breasts begging you to dive, death is the last option of fools. 

You will find no comfort in the hyperborean grip of the ocean, despite your tendency to look over your shoulder to the ebbing site of your last remaining earthly comfort, a pile of clothes that once described you as nothing more than a mere tourist; a human parcel with no return address save where destiny takes you this night. To her arms, she sings to you now,” Return to me, return.”

Your children will forget their father, they will speak of how they lost you to the Sea, but this will be incorrect. The Sea did not claim you like an avaricious gambler whose arms slide back to themselves across the table, with cards and chips brought in by the tide. No, your worth is much more indissoluble; you are the eyes of Santa Lucia returning to her fingers. To her bright glowing vision, you are the clarity of so many wishes.

She has allowed you to witness in this life more than most men: the remnant death of your immediate family, the rise of your last and fourth child, Fascino– the charmed one–and now the rebirth of your own spirit. Leaving? You are not just an insurance policy signed and dated. You have no requests to measure your want. This existence ended when the black cells of the Hydra took your beloved. On Capri where you found her all those years ago you must return. There by the western olive trees outside of Mount Solaro you will bury your wedding rings, and finish the song she interrupted that day.

Fascino will understand, a week from now he will enter your apartment in Roma, and see the piles of his mother’s letters hailed with tears, your only clue to him. He will check your accounts, your affairs, and your assets and they will all lead to the ocean. A boat you bought her in those last days, the trip you promised to make before life consumed you both. Fascino will call the others and confirm the worst, never knowing at that moment your feet have climbed the mossy cliffs.

A prayer to the sky announces your invitation, your heart rattling inside with courtly pride. You can feel her wet hair falling on your shoulder, the scent of jasmine wafts upward to your puckering smile. You kiss nothing but air, or so the loveless say.


Published in: on July 24, 2006 at 4:54 am  Comments Off on