an evolution

It is 11 PM on a Saturday night. My sheets hang to dry, and I curl up on the bare mattress with a pink blanket. My mascara still sits on my eyelashes, while I’ve taken the rest of my make up off and left the bottle of remover beside me.

I left Toronto realizing that I couldn’t trust a lot of who I used to see, and who I used to call my friends.

“Aren’t you embarrassed?”

“Your stories give me anxiety.”

The return home always felt exciting to me, and returning home always felt like a privilege. To continually see the place you grew up in - with a new perspective.

But, this return home was different.

“It’s evolution, Emily. It’s a nice idea to think people can change and evolve together, but sometimes evolution is just that for some people - an idea.” My dad tells me.

Hindsight is 20/20, as our friend Tom Scandoval says.

Now, back in Rome, I am also starting to become more and more aware of the people that I surround myself with, and the people who I will now allow to understand my heart.

This is growth. I tell myself. True colours are always a blessing in disguise. A Saturn Return. Knowledge is power.

I tell myself cliche quotes, hoping at least one of them will stick.

Knowing us is a privilege. I am trying to teach myself this concept, too.

But, as I try to reiterate these points - I realize that there are many times in life where a daughter just needs her mother.

Sage advice from a woman who’s seen it all.

So, I write a note to myself:

Don’t ever feel bad for wanting to see the good in everyone. For wanting to believe in the good of everyone.

How can we still move through the world with an open heart? Will people continually take advantage of it?

I wonder what she would answer.

So, I do what I do best.

Silk, a love letter, and a dirty martini on a Friday night.

—

“Can you read something for me?” I ask with a smile in a white silk top that knots in the back.

It’s one year later, and the way our conversations start still haven’t changed.

“I’m writing A Love Letter To Italy. It’s for a travel publication, but I don’t want it to be one of those typical love letters to prosciutto and potato pizza.”

He leaves the bar to come and stand next me. I pass him my phone and keep my dirty martini in hand.

“You’ve always had this cool way of writing about love - I’ve told you that.”

He keeps scrolling and I keep taking many sips.

“Well, you get it. That’s why I came to you.”

People weave in and out around us. The air is always sticky, the air is always dark. The music is always low. Everyone is always dressed in black. Everyone is always sizing each other up, without trying to look as though they are sizing each other up.

People really think they are Something. And you have no other choice but to laugh.

“It’s good - but the ending. It’s not strong enough, this time around. I think you can go deeper.”

“Right when I start to talk about what love is?”

“Yes. You are trying to explain something that isn’t…”

“Meant to be explained. I know.”

“Only felt. And even when we do feel it, we still can’t explain it.” He passes my phone back to me. “Anyways. Just think about it. It’ll come to you. It always does.”

—

I finish my martini and read a text from my best friend.

“You’ve been there for almost a year, off and on. And you’ve become someone to a lot of different people. And you did it just by being yourself.”

Words that I need to hear. Words that I will choose to let stick.