Letter from Italy
Yes, please do come. The doctor says I’m up to it. I have slept peacefully each night for several weeks now. No nightmares, no screaming, no bouts of amnesia. You can’t imagine how much better I am!
The villa is small by local standards but just right for me. Great room and dining room with huge windows and wide balconies overlooking the ocean. Dream kitchen, complete with a highly-trained “capocuoco”, a culinary genius. Last night I ate creamy polenta, vegetables roasted with herbs, and sauteed spinach. Mediterranean food! Sumptuous bath and two light-filled rooms upstairs – master bedroom and guest room, where the doctor sleeps. A perfect place for you and me. No empty spaces to fill, no shadows to banish. No nursery.
Yesterday I ventured out to the seaside. It was my first time out of the villa, my first time exploring the world on my own for a very long time. Young children were playing – building sandcastles, laughing, chasing one another. I was finally able to look at them – another first. I actually smiled at a little girl who looked so much like – I still can’t say her name, but the doctor says someday I’ll be able to remember her with love, not guilt. He assures me the accident wasn’t my fault.
Oh my dear, I have been such a burden to you. I see now that neither of us should have had to bear this pain alone. I wish I could have reached out to you, held you close. I am so sorry for disappearing into darkness.
I have an idea, Charles. We can sell our home and buy this villa. I know you’ll miss the cool, misty mornings, the soft rains, our garden, afternoon tea. But those garden paths are imprinted with her footsteps, that house echoes her laughter. There is no comfort there, no sunshine. Please, dear Charlie – I can’t come back.
But you can come here. You’ll learn to love olive oil and pesto and shimmering sunlight. We can start over.
The doctor says I’m ready to live again. Please come soon.