More than a Melody (H.S) ON HOLD

50

fifty

Harry and I both rest with our shoulders together, my head laying atop his and his head placed above mine. We had our layover in Germany a few hours prior and the sudden drops indicated we were soon to land in Italy. Lights dazzle the otherwise stygian sky, scattered bundles of white that mirror the stars we glide through. I tighten the safety belt as the drops become steeper, my eyes not leaving the beauty of the foreign city below.

"Benvenuto in Italia," Harry whispers to me, chin now set atop my shoulder, breath tickling the exposed skin of my neck.

"I can't believe we're here."

Harry and I spent the majority of our flight and layovers in a silent train of thought. I could see the way he tugged on his fingers and tapped and twirled his thumbs together, anxiety pouring out in little nuanced quirks. I bounced my leg and chewed my lip, searching for answers in the curvatures of clouds and buildings and vast oceans. Who will I be in Italy? Who am I now?

"Once we get through customs, go to the washroom and change out your contacts. We have a bit of a drive to our estate in Cefalù and this will be your only opportunity 'til then."

Both of our knuckles whiten from gripping the handles, the plane steadily descending. Each drop mimics the internal flipflop of being on a rollercoaster, the rush of adrenaline and quick gasp of air from the sudden shifts in motion. I open and close my jaw to ease the pressure in my ears while mumbling, "got it, Dad," to Harry.

I practically feel the roll of his eyes, "watch it, Jane."

My neck and wrists pulse. I shut my eyes to block out the fear of landing. Not the physical landing itself but the new soil I was forced to tread upon. The new life I was forced to reckon with. I only knew a few words in Italian, one being parmesan. I had so much to learn and all the time in the world to learn it.

"What is my story?" I whisper to Harry to avoid the possibility of ease dropping strangers.

I was perfectly aware I had an American accent. No aspect of my being or cultural experience screamed european by any means. Harry's sophistication of language and diverse customs hardly matched the little bit of knowledge I acquired from watching the Travel channel. I've only ever lived in Oregon. The Pacific Northwest was all I've ever known.

"What do you want it to be?" He breathes back, hardly reacting to the turbulence and abrupt drops. The plane could be crashing and he wouldn't bat an eye towards the crumbling walls. It was only I. Him and I.

"I've had twenty hours of traveling to come up with an answer and now, here we are about to land, and I have no idea." I laugh because it was absolutely ridiculous to have this discussion now, when we're minutes away from our final destination.

He nestles closer so that his mouth is barely grazing the lobe of my left ear. The waves of his rasped accent create lullabies in my mind.

"You're a blank slate, a tabula rasa, reincarnated. You can be whoever you want to now, Jane. You're no longer tied down to expectations or a single identity. You can just be."

I shut my eyes and picture a life of just being. Silk dresses and matted hair in the rain. Toes in the Tyrrhenian sea. Fingers in the wind. Tracing letters in the sand. Lying bare above the words. Dancing and drinking until dawn. Prancing across mosaic while a storm pelts the glass. Learning how to love without reluctance. Annotating the margins of favorite novels. Writing my own. Laughing with strangers. Removing facades of contentment. Loving all of me and all of him all the time. Meditating more (maybe). Saying no. Being.