By the time I placed my hand on Juliet’s breast,
we started to breathe again.
Ice creams for the older girls now 7 and 8.
Aperol and spritz for him.
The first uninterrupted days with my six-month-old baby girl.
By the time we got to Verona,
we had packed up a household grown over three generations in Hong Kong,
leaving only my Harley in storage behind.
By the time we got to Verona, I’d
gifted him grappa in Bassano,
cooked eggplants and aubergine from the market in Padova,
watched my family devour pizzas and pasta in Venice.
Como.
Sirmione.
Bellagio.
Each a step toward our new home in Portugal.
My oldest Petra is 16 now,
and in love with a boy.
A 16 year old boy we welcomed into our home.
A boy I gave condoms to,
knowing my daughter was not ready,
but unstoppable.
A boy who is not integrating into the structure of my house.
She is heartbroken.
She has lost my blessing.
My head hurts.
My eyes are out of tears.
My hips can’t turn to get out of bed.
My mind is in Verona,
watching her half her lifetime ago,
ice cream smeared across her face,
my hand on Juliet’s breast,
remembering my first lovers,
wishing for hers to be kind.
