It’s weird writing this, at the very end of November - thinking back to where I was a year ago. Right now, I’m currently sitting on the floor of my apartment in Toronto. Yes. You read that correctly. My apartment. Not an Airbnb. An apartment in the city. A home. A place to call my own.
I’m eating a bowl of pasta al tonno, because it is the ultimate flavour combination. Pizza al tonno was always my go-to at Franco’s, with a side of chilli flakes. And I think he’d be proud that I’m making my own tomato al tonno sauce, except I think he probably misses me. Or at least, I hope he does.
A year ago, I had come back from my “writing by the sea” jaunt, which, ironically, turned into me just being “…by the sea” because I could not write a single thing. I was in Rome for a few days before coming back to Toronto for the holidays - and spent one of those evenings meeting Hot F. for the first time, and hanging outside the bar in the pouring rain with him and the Man at the Front.
“When am I seeing you next?” The Man At the Front asks. Surprisingly, it has been one of my favourite nights at the bar. Quiet and unassuming.
The apology tour that never happened. And maybe that wasn’t supposed to happen.
“Maybe January. But I’ll be out of Rome again for a while.”
He’s taken aback. “What?! That’s so far away.”
“I’ll miss you.” I tell him. Which is the truth. This place, this bar, Rome…it always leaves me missing something.
He wraps his arms around me for a long time. I bury my face into his wool coat.
“I’ll be here when you get bored.”
There’s a certain type of melancholy that’s been lingering in the air over the past few days. And I am reminded of PN when he said, “It’s a blessing and a curse to be like us - isn’t it? The empaths. We’re always going to feel like we’re missing something.”
I’m looking around my apartment right now. The four white cushions that sit around the coffee table. The bar cart that’s already housing a housewarming gift from a new friend. The four unread books in front of me, and 3 make up palettes that sit on top of it. Two open suitcases with jeans and sweaters and winterized going out tops pouring out of them. My vintage fur that I’ve thrown over my shoulders right now, in place of a blanket that I desperately need to buy.
There isn’t anyone, or any specific place that I’m longing for. There isn’t anyone in this moment that I truly miss, and no one I need closure from. But I think, where this certain melancholy is coming from - is the realization of the passage of time.
It’s realizing how quickly the days move past us, how quickly the months, how quickly the years. And how every day will inevitably turn into a yesterday, and you wonder if the people you loved held on to those moments just as tightly as you did.
I know there is a little Emily right now, looking at present day Emily in her sweats and vintage fur, sitting in her new apartment with a slew of past Italian lovers (lol) - and is probably, in awe. And not because we don’t live in a castle, and not because we’re not the tooth fairy (my dream job when I was in kindergarten) - but I think it’s because we both couldn’t have imagined this life for ourselves.
There’s no husband, no barbie mansion, no dog. But there is a one bedroom in the city, that came so impeccably furnished, it makes you realize that those tattooed butterflies on your shoulder really do mean something. Even our drunk decisions have some sort of aesthetic to them.
You’ll miss what was, I’d tell Little Emily. You’ll always miss what was. You’ll miss what happened a week ago, two weeks ago. What happened last summer, and even the spring before that. You’ll want to transport to 8 years ago, to 10 years ago - where you could just have one more. One more Christmas, maybe. One more moment where it was just you two and those twinkling white lights on the fireplace mantle. Her eyes closed and her hair sparse, and that fuzzy purple blanket with all the different butterflies. That fuzzy purple blanket that your dad still kept neatly folded in the backseat, years after she passed.
But how lucky are we, Little Emily, to always have something to miss?
In Bordeaux, you’ll walk by graffiti that reads, “Il ya l'amour". It translates to, “there is love.” And you’ll remember this, and you’ll remember that sign in Melbourne that read, “love knows no bounds.”
It’s not that you’re scared of getting bored, of staying in one spot, and of getting restless. It’s that you’re scared of not finding love in the spaces around you. You’re scared of not meeting people, or finding places and things that you will miss.
Il ya l’amour. There is love. There is love everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.
The sound of the washing machine on a Saturday morning. Your dad when he brings you a bag of your favourite coffee for your new French press. A friend who routinely checks in and asks you how your day is going. An ex who wishes you good luck with the move (he never really leaves us lol). The free latte and almond cake from your new friend at the bakery. When there’s nothing to do except go for a walk in the afternoon and say hi to the cute guy who owns the vintage store. Hugging your best friend, and realizing she was the best thing to come out of your four years of university. How we can now light candles in the evening. How we can now have books without worrying about them weighing down our suitcase.
And maybe it’s not as exciting and anxiety inducing as love triangles, quadrilaterals, and pentagons. Of falling in love with married men who are 15 years older than you. Of sneaking around, of arguing in public just to prove affection to one another.
But it is the type of love that is steady. It is the type that is reassuring. Home.
You know that quote? You just have to make yourself ready. Everything else will come by itself.
Maybe, it’s already here.
Anyways, I’m ready for this new era.
Aren’t you?
Love,
Emily