We swatted in a midnight haze at a mosquito with a familiar craze. Could it be the same one that punished us for my excessive limoncello session the eve before our wedding? Same place, more or less, different time, to be sure.
Our arrival in Lucca was much like the embrace of an old friend. Alleyways and shop windows encouraged us to reminisce while the church bells would not let us ignore the distance that wedged between us. It all seemed so familiar; I was tempted to ask the mosquito how things had been. Instead, I slipped out of bed and wrote the following (a touch dramatic, but I was thrown from bed by a mosquito that I mistook as my friend):
Our past lingers in front of us like dripped shadows hung dry in the setting sun. Our paths dig in; held in check by the leash of an Indian summer, peaks and valleys with shades of grey, remind us where we once stood, laughed, and loitered.
I’d been there before. It was a different time and place, then. Yet there I stood, in the now, and trapped in the trace in front of me was a message from my old self.
“Yes, you were here,” said a slimmer version of me. I had a few mosquito bites, too.
Like the forgotten skin of a garden snake or the tail end of a feverish dream, our past lingers.
I could not deny my past, so I grabbed a hold of it and answered back.
“Yes I was, and here I am.”
And then I covered my head with the blanket and went back to sleep. Our past may always find us, but sometimes it can just wait until the misquito finds an open window.