There are at least fourteen different ways to describe the beauty of a sun rising. I know this, because I have woken early every morning since Luca’s accident to watch the sunrise from the swing. Our swing. In the new light of each day, I visit Luca and tell him what made this morning’s appearance of the sun so special, and how meeting him, loving him and letting him love me has changed my life. Changed me. Helped me to find me again.
This morning, I don’t feel like going to the hospital straight away, so I take a detour via the Ponte Vecchio. I lean against the edge of the bridge and watch the flow of the river, thinking about the point at which it meets the sea. When does one body of water disappear and become another? Or do they simply get lost in each other? My mind wanders to the old Italian couple I saw on the first day I arrived in Impruneta, walking down that steep decline, arm in arm. I knew that if he fell, she would follow. I don’t know how I’ll stop myself from falling if Luca doesn’t make it. Somehow though, I’ll have to.
I reach into my pocket for the love lock, the most meaningful gift anyone has ever given me. My trembling hand twists the key until the padlock flicks open. The intricately engraved words feel cool against my skin. Amongst the hundreds of other padlocks, I find a place for ours and snap the lock shut. Our padlock. Our bridge. Our forever. Blinded by my sadness, I approach the side of the bridge and toss the key over the Ponte Vecchio, into the Arno. I can’t tell whether the moan I feel rise from me can be heard by anyone else, but all I know is that it comes from deep inside.
On my way to the hospital, back through the city centre, I pass Signor Fiorelli’s stand. He waves and trails after me, unable to keep up with my brisk pace.
‘Cara Mia, are you okay?’ he calls out from behind me. I look at him, past him, beyond him, and respond with a small wave, the words I don’t think so echoing inside me, through me, around me.
When I reach the hospital, Rosetta is in Luca’s room.
‘Any news?’
Today, like every other day, she shakes her head. There’s a brochure on the edge of the bed, and I vaguely understand it to be about life support and choices. I rip it to shreds and throw it in the bin, my stomach churning.
‘I don’t want to see anything like this in here again. No priests, nuns, brochures, nothing. Only hope. Do you understand?’
She nods in silence, tears gliding down her face. She leaves the room and heads back to Luca and Paolo’s apartment for a rest. Busying myself with my usual task of replacing wilted flowers with fresh ones, I then take my place on the chair beside Luca’s bed. I read pages of Jane Austen and his favourite car magazines, but it does nothing to evoke a response from him. Finally, in the late morning, I set them aside and spend the next couple of hours watching and waiting and reminiscing.
‘You have to fight, Luca. Harder than you’ve ever fought before.’
At midday Paolo joins me.
‘It’s meant to be one at a time, but I figure he won’t mind,’ he says.
‘Paolo?’ I whisper.
‘Yes, Mia.’
‘Do you think he’ll make it?’
He looks at me, and then past me as his eyes stare into the distance. ‘I hope so.’
I never want to forget the taste of his lips, the smell of his skin, or the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching. I want to remember what it felt like for his smile to take my breath away. If Luca doesn’t pull through, all I will be left with are memories. Like all memories, they start out vivid and full of emotion, slowly becoming vague and hazy recollections of what once was. There is only one way I truly can capture the memories while they are still fresh and not subject them to a fate of fading away into a distant past. I break my routine of visiting the hospital after my morning meditation and instead honour the urge to go upstairs to the studio. With considerable force, I manage to open a stuck window for some fresh air. I flick the switch on the vintage radio and roll the dial over the static waves until the pitch is perfect. I gather a bucket, a broom and a bunch of old rags from the laundry. It takes me two full hours to clean the studio.
Under one of the drop sheets I find a rusted biscuit tin. Inside is a stack of black-and-white photographs bundled together with a ribbon. Underneath them is a pile of old letters, worn and faded yellow. I check the postmarks. They coincide with the war. I hold the letters close to my chest, feeling an intense sadness for Signor Fiorelli. Then I sift through the photographs that have captured so beautifully the love he had for Amelia, and I’m reminded of how love has the power to enrich our lives as well as the power to hurt us so profoundly that our lives can, if we let them, be rendered forever damaged. I set the tin aside and after finding a can of paint in the cellar, I get to work, repainting the main wall of the studio.
And then I sit, watching it dry, as my soul leans into what it feels like to be me. I was lost and broken. Scared and lonely. And then I wasn’t. Now I’m on the brink of heading down the same path, if I let myself. Only this time, for Luca’s sake, I am determined to not let the pieces of my shattered self remain fragmented. Because Luca wouldn’t want me to live a life that’s broken. As much as it stings, I do have a choice. Wallow, wilt and die living, or live by the words he once taught me: Take life as it comes.
As I sit with the comforting smell of fresh paint while plump raindrops splatter against the open studio window, drowning out the sound of the radio, my mind retraces our steps, our life, and the things that made us us.
The memories dance around in my mind, until I begin to smile from the inside, and that’s when I start painting the first picture.
I take a card and with a felt-tip pen I write a note to display under the painting.
Our first kiss. When I was numb, you showed me what it was like to feel again.
A week later, I have a collection of seven paintings that have captured the memories of my time with Luca.
Us. Our bridge. You wiped away my tears. You showed me it was okay to be me.
Us. Sunflowers. You showed me what it was like to laugh again.
Us. Our secret lake. Ti amo … You told me you loved me.
Us. Bikes. Rolling hills and luscious vineyards. Taking life as it comes.
Us. Livorno. A pebble beach and waves crashing. I never wanted that day to end.
Us. Shooting stars. Wishes can come true.
Two weeks later, I have encapsulated fourteen of our most special memories in my paintings. I head into town, to the local corniceria. I hand the shopkeeper one of my paintings and he brings out several different frames for me to choose from. He takes some measurements, and I tell him I need fourteen smooth classic wooden frames with an antique look.
‘Fourteen?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘I’ll deliver them to you when they’re ready, signorina Mia.’
A few days later, I’m in the studio painting again when Stella knocks on the door.
‘Mia, may I come in?’ she asks, as she gently pries the door open. ‘Rocco from the framing store is here. He says he has a delivery for you.’
‘Sure, let him in,’ I murmur, my eyes fixed on my latest painting.
Rocco places the frames in the corner of the studio and lets himself out.
‘You’re usually at the hospital by this time,’ says Stella, glancing at my paintings sprawled across the floor. ‘Oh. Wow. Mia, these are … are these paintings of you and Luca?’
I nod.
‘They’re beautiful. These are places you visited together?’ she asks, walking closer to admire them.
I nod.
‘Where was this?’ she asks, pointing to a depiction of us at the laghetto.
‘It’s a secret.’
‘What about this field of sunflowers?’
‘Volterra. Near Pisa,’ I reply. ‘We spoke a lot about making memories. If what they’re saying is right—I want to make sure I have something to hold on to.’
She drops her gaze. ‘Is this your way of saying you’ve lost hope, Mia?’
‘No, Stella. It’s the only way I know how to keep it.’
I turn my head and begin to carefully add the finishing touches to a painting of Luca and I in Positano, by the lagoon. He’s standing, reading Jane Austen to me in his sexy Italian accent as I cover my eyes from the glare of the sun, laughing at his narration, my laughter reverberating through our special place.
‘A minute later he’ll drop the book and scoop me into his arms, twirl me around and throw me into the cool turquoise water with a splash,’ I say, staring at the painting.
‘God, Mia, I know how much this hurts. How hard it must be for you, not knowing.’
‘I’m trying to make sense of it all, in the only way I know how. I just hope this is—enough to help me keep on living if he doesn’t make it.’
She sits down next to me and crosses her legs. She’s quiet for a long time, before finally telling me, ‘Honey, I have no idea.’
And I love her for it. Because she gets it. I bring my knees to my chest and drop my weary head into my hands, my soul aching for those happy times. And when she wraps her arms around me and cries with me, I don’t feel so alone.