Remember Rome? Those early mornings? Flowers and leaves falling all around me upon my new table in Portici. The oldest storyteller and I walked at dawn through the eternal city — a city in ruins — he took me back here in the very beginning: “time flies,” I saw my little sneakers first, wondering what I was remembering, and it was me running to see my favorite sight — yeah, it was — in the summers. At the end of the day, against a sky on fire, the starlings swayed as one around ancient columns in silhouette at the Roman Forum — I turned to my father, “time flies,” I thought, since he always said it with a tone. He liked that, the oldest storyteller, standing there.
“Time flies,” he looked into my eyes, “it can fly in many ways.”
“I did, I did say that,” I thought.
“Time flies…”
Two suitcases on the commuter train — headed to Portici—Death led me through many endings and beginnings, headed in another direction. I can’t do that anymore, that’s not where I am, no more looking back. No more. I’m here, doesn’t matter how I got here. I keep dreaming about where I’m going to from here even if I’m between one and the other — headed fast toward another destination, another station stop covered in graffiti. Naples is tattooed, the suburbs at least. A Neapolitan entrepreneur picked me up at the station with a cord shirt of falling autumn leaves…
“Portici…” Death looked around.
He’s lived around the world, asked me many questions, the two of us rolling my suitcases— crossing the street — passing a clothing store with mandarin trees lining the street with colorful apartment blocks. Portici has its own feel, and I had to — I have been thinking, been traveling over the past couple of years, and I can’t, I can’t go back, regardless — him snapping at my pizza — it doesn’t matter how I got here. I look around, this time, because I’m changing, in motion, making decisions such as — I want more, and I’m reaching for it, but I have to— infuse this moment with a feeling, take stock of what I learned. It’s the end of a chapter, I’m getting out of here, this space, and I’m on the brink of the next: big and bright, sweet and subtle, range. I feel that, paying for my items at this supermarket, moving from one place to the next.
“Up up up,” the oldest storyteller says as flowers and leaves fall around us in the sunlight….let’s talk a stroll, check out Portici…get our feet on the ground, MAN UP, that’s me, not him, with a fist. A little to the left, Death reminds me, “a little to the right, the Pacific Islanders knew — they knew — they saw it — land way way out there— if they put their boats into the currents…a little to the right, a little to the left, they would veer, but they were still on target — Hawaii — crossing the world to get there in curves. I need that, especially on these outer curves, finding myself in this — city — somewhere out there — just a stop. I’m still on track.
So, let’s get our feet on the ground, check out the mandarine, did you say, Death inviting me to dance, trees…down the block? Already there. Fall in love with your life — I couldn’t even believe it, when he said it, “so let us go then you and I…” he thought, we have much to accomplish. He pointed.
The street smells sweet, bulbs hanging in the air, new places, new faces, a whole world to discover from here to there…
