Washed clean

My body is washed in the cleansing fire of the sun and wiped dry by an alpine wind as I am both Left and Leaving. And for the first time I am alone in a group of people and it feels good. It feels good to sit quietly…no one saying a word to each other but each of our heads filled with a multitude of thoughts and voices. Mine is filled with the voices of Mayan women from Chiapas, the questions of Kenyan acrobats, the lilting song of the Brits, and searching English words for my horde of Italian friends. I can never find those words, I’m beginning to forget bits of the language I’ve spoken for 22 years and replacing it with words I’ve known for only 2 months. My soul aches as I think of how to explain this life to the one I led before.
How do I build such a bridge? One sturdy enough to span oceans, to hold tumbling acrobats, a bundle of immigrants, one that can carry mountains, one that trees can walk across, a bridge that can unite the past and the future while still passing through the moment I’m living in. How do I build a bridge between bouncing children, war veterans who share homemade cheese with me, and foggy nights filled with the warmth of bonfires? I want to dance across such a bridge doing the traditional dances of Piedmonte while Marcolino plays the accordion. I want to dance this exhausted body across that bridge into the loving arms of my family who will gladly listen to my lifetime of bizarre stories that have happened in only 3 months time.
I want to dance into your bed. I want you to stroke my meters of golden hair while I explain to you how I became an American only after I left the country. I want to cook a big Italian dinner for you and the Jews while we swap travel stories over fresh espresso. Most of all I want to tell you these stories without explanation. I want them to seem as normal as they feel, I want some one to understand. I hope that person is you.