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.
