Incongruence. Feelings are feeble, but I suppose you’re not. No, no, no. I’ve got so many people I can think of. Just name a few. I dare you to do it. I could tell you exactly the right moment when everyone changed. I’m no one to judge, and I swear I understand. You love somebody, even as a friend; and then the season of the heart mutates. You can’t help it and it’s no one’s fault. It goes according to the caducity of the flesh. Fair enough, I get it. Like skin shedding from your body, dandruff of the soul, the inconsistency of the living. It applies to everything. To anyone.
Does it, though? Because you, on the other hand, well. I think you were consistent, mum.
I’ve got this eight-hour flight: Washington DC to Venice. And this is me handling the issue with maturity. This aircraft dimension. Faces, trays, all these seats with people sleeping, looking and laughing. Everything is in a blur, and my mind is rotating. It spins, it does, and I can’t seem to keep a straight face. What if somebody takes the hint? They’ll think I’ve gone mental.
There was this nice steward, I must say. Dressed in a grey suit, he offered me a cup of tea. I mean, I didn’t even order it. Can you believe he just walked up the aisle and said:
–it’s still warm, can I get you anything else?
Sir. I never asked you for anything. What is this? But now that you’ve mentioned it: could you please get me out of here?
This scent, oh my. There are odours I can trace and colours that I associate with her. Ok, stop, it’s time to rationalise the conundrum. Deep breaths, Josh. Deep breathing is the best.
She’s gone. It feels like…you know when you’re pacing through the corridor at night-time, and you can’t see anything because it’s pure darkness? And instinctively you close your eyes perusing the corridor in search of a light switch. I mean, why not keep your eyes on the lookout for any prolapse on the wall? I’m saying…try and locate it faster and make it safer, you get my point right? There you go, that’s surely how I’ve been feeling ever since you’ve been gone.
I can’t seem to keep my eyes open because every inch of space has got this big tar stain that reminds me of the void that originated from you. So, I hide behind my eyelids, my full me, the whole thing. And yet again, the moment I blink it goes BOOM because of the voices.
Gift, gift, gift. What’s the gift you left me with? Not a single note, you’ve made yourself scarce but I’m your son. Who knows what such mischievousness can lead to: disappearing like this? It’s not just me, mother. People seek answers. A-N-S-W-E-R-S.
I am sweating, dripping but I don’t want to be contained.
Fine, I need a hook. And I’m being reasonable. This is the story: I have taken a flight to Venice because when I phoned my family over there, they said mother was last seen at the airport even though the crew cabin only admitted afterwards that she had never boarded the plane.
Do we have a clue on where to start looking for her? I can’t concentrate if people are staring. Stop looking in my direction, ladies. And lasses, just you quit! I’m a very handsome man but this is not the place, this is not the time. Oh my God! It’s so cold on this plane. Listen everybody! I’ll get a blanket, buckle up in my seat and strive to disinfect my mind from all the noise.
No wonder there’s a vacant seat right next to him. What fucking luck! A total freak flamboyantly gesturing and talking to himself. Today of all days, that we are all travelling solo, he gets assigned to the seat next to ours.
PEOPLE ARE WHISPERING.
And if she’s dead? I ought to come up with something. The funeral? It could be held both in the United States and in Italy. Maybe not at the same time, though. But who knows and who remembers who my mum really was. Well, to me she was everything. This giant pillow-like woman, so soft and gentle. She would not let me be alone.
GUYS! We haven’t found her body yet. She’s not gone; she’s no goner. Gone where? Mum, do you remember the harbour we went strolling down to when I was a kid? Close to the Potomac River, it was. The fishermen that I was eager to meet. I really did not like when they killed the fish and you got me, mum. I can still smell your fresh hair from here. How many times did you save me? Because you would pick me up. You told me I was a sensitive kid, and this brought tears to your eyes. Why did it make you cry?
This blanket is suffocating me. It’s the lint. It is the lint! The texture is so gritty that it is almost scraping my skin. I feel agitated. And what is wrong with the colour of this crappy piece of cotton-wannabe polyester around my lap? Look at THIS. Sand nude beige. No, for real? No wonder the fat lady in the front row felt sick right after we took off. Wait, now that I think of it, why are all the hostesses dressed in pure white? Great, my mind has gone kaleidoscope mode again. Josh, Josh, Josh. Focus-on-the-present-moment.
Back to the start: If (this is just a conjecture) my Italian family finds her dead, they are going to need an obituary. And since they no longer know my mum and they don’t want to see what she’s become, I shall provide them with one. But I can’t bear talking about her either in the past or in English right now. Honestly, why would I that? It’d be like bursting with the vividity of death. I am not about to kill my own mum.
Yes. Mum. Hear me out. If you’re not there anymore, there’s something I need to tell you, and it’s gotta be in Italian. I know, you don’t like when I speak just like your husband. There are so many things I haven’t told you about what he did to me. But that’s beside the point. I’m not the one who’s lost. I will never be.
First and foremost, Mother, this is for you:
Sei stata vita donata
ed è come se ti avessi partorita.
Padre di mia madre.
Più leggera, ora, almeno tu.
Mi lasci più stanco e meno figlio.
Forse sopravvissuto.
Quello che resta è provare a riconoscerti ovunque,
inesausto al dolore,
solo in attesa di tornare a respirarti.