My heart longs for Spain

for Goya in El Prado

and the feeling of belonging

in the park of Madrid;

for familiar Barcelona,

where Gaudi’s vision

makes you think that God might exist;

where the removed English speakers

gather at Queen Victoria’s

drinking and smoking and losing their minds.

My heart leaps for Italy

for the smell

and the heat

and the feeling of family

as we navigated the streets

of summer in Venice,

for the quiet of Tuscany,

where the plains are interrupted

by hilltopped cities

with names like Montepulciano,

for the excitement of the World Cup

and a fake soccer ball

that brought four brothers together in joy for the last time.

My heart aches for Peru,

for the tias and the tios

and fake tias and fake tios

all talking over each other

and laughing as one,

for the altitude sickness

we all caught in Cuzco,

and the terrifying ride

up the mountain to Macchu Picchu,

for that deep ancestral feeling that this is where you came from.

My heart calls for Wyoming,

for the sunrise over the mountains

and the Western American feeling

of galloping on a horse,

for the clouds across the prairie

and the foggy freezing

summer mornings and nights.

My heart cries for New Hampshire,

for that house in the woods where life doesn’t matter,

for the fish in the pond and the dog running free,

for the birch and the pine and the view of the mountain,

and that spooky feeling that you get here alone.

My heart smiles for Orleans,

for that beach we called Skaket,

with the terror of the eels

and the innocence of youth.

My heart starts for Needham,

for that town that we hated

until we understood the meaning

of the idea of home,

where we loved and we lost and we all came together

and we knew we wouldn’t have

to face death alone.

My heart waits for you,

for your smile and your laugh

and your calm understanding,

for the day that will come when we finally meet.