Easter

Some mornings begin in Amsterdam and still manage to smell faintly of every Easter that came before them. #

I woke up in Amsterdam and for the first few seconds Easter existed before location. That happens with old holidays. The date arrives carrying its own rooms. Childhood tables. Clothes chosen with more care than an ordinary Sunday required. Church bells somewhere in memory. Family voices. Food beginning too early. Genova. Milano. Different years compressed until none of them is completely separate. Then I opened my eyes properly and there was our bedroom, our tall windows, Yuri beside me, the crooked floor waiting beyond the bed, and I knew exactly where I was. Home. Another home layered over the others rather than replacing them. I got up first, which gave me the bathroom without negotiation. Shower, hair, makeup, earrings, clothes. I dressed properly because Easter remains one of those days when jeans would make me feel vaguely unfinished even if nobody else cared. Angel last. One spray at my neck and Mom arrived so quickly in my mind that I smiled at myself in the mirror. Perfume is ridiculous. A few molecules and suddenly I can remember the atmosphere of an apartment years ago. Yuri passed the bathroom door while I was still getting ready. «Bambolina, we’re not meeting the Pope.» «Go away.» He did not go away immediately because irritating me while I do my hair remains one of his hobbies. When I finally came out he looked at me and smiled in that quiet way I still notice after thirteen years. I notice more now, perhaps because the gestures have become smaller. Young love announces itself constantly. Long love can fit inside one look while somebody is holding keys. Mom called before lunch. Of course. I answered in Italian and instantly became a slightly different physical version of myself, hands moving even though she could not see them. We talked about food, naturally, then everything else. She asked what I was wearing. I described it. She approved with modifications I had not requested. Perfect. I could almost smell her perfume beneath my own. Dad called separately from Genova. His voice always changes the geography of my head. Sea. Focaccia. Boats. Streets. The whole city appears behind him whether he mentions any of it or not. He asked if we were eating properly. I assured him the Italian state need not intervene. He laughed. That little sound stayed with me after we hung up. We ate well. Not a recreation of an Italian Easter because I have stopped trying to reproduce one place inside another. That always feels like measuring the present against an absent original. We had our Easter here. Our table, our food, our flowers, our Amsterdam windows, our calls home. Later we walked. I wanted air after eating enough to make movement a moral obligation. The city was bright in places, cool in others, spring still deciding how serious it was. Families, couples, people with cameras, bicycles moving past. I held Yuri’s arm for part of the walk, not because I needed to, simply because it was there. I thought about how much of our relationship has happened while walking beside each other. Milano streets. Genova visits. Holidays. Amsterdam. Arguments continued while walking, jokes, silence, practical conversations, plans that happened and plans that vanished. I was seventeen when we began. I am thirty now. There is no way to understand that amount of time from inside it. It feels both enormous and like one continuous conversation with interruptions for sleep. We came home, changed into comfortable clothes and destroyed the elegance of the day within minutes. Good. Holidays should eventually end in socks. I called Mom once more briefly because I had forgotten to tell her something. She had forgotten something too. This is how family communication works. Tonight the flowers are still everywhere and there are remains of Easter on the table. Yuri ate something I had mentally reserved for myself and claimed there had been no label. I am considering implementing a household labelling system. Outside, Amsterdam is quiet. I can feel Italy inside today without feeling far from where I am. That may be one of the nicest things these years have given me. I do not need to hurt in order to remember where I came from. I can miss people and still be completely happy when I hang up the phone. I can wear Mom’s perfume, hear Dad’s voice, eat Easter lunch in Amsterdam and belong to the room I am sitting in. The last little lamp is on beside me. The flowers are beginning to cast shadows against the wall. Easter is almost over. I am still wearing Angel.

Remember me, Eclipse.