itinerary
w/o June 10th 2024
remember a moment that’s both nostalgic and visceral. it can be old or new, but something that feels both vague and like you can still feel it in your skin, muscle, and bones. write about it however feels right.
CW: discussion of death, some strong language
My grandmother died 14 years, 4 months and 4 days ago. Before that, there was a place.
On my last day here I walk up the hill to the only church in town, which sits tiny and unassuming at its very top. Although this small village has been overrun by tourists with fancy accents, nobody comes up here. But I do.
I feel like this would be the right moment to state for the record: I am not reiligious. Maybe. I don't know. I don't think. It doesn't matter; it's not what I'm thinking about when I enter the empty chapel - sitting in the worn wooden pew (the second row - never the first), I think: "why did she never take me here?".
The only memories I hold of this place are of my grandmother: as I walk from the hotel down the tree-lined road to the town centre, I remember how we used to walk through a different street to get there - before the road was bought by a local business and access was closed.
I pass by the wisteria-adorned façade of a building where a souvenir shop used to reside, and whatever resides there now is of too little importance for me to remember.
I squeeze through wealthy toursits that wouldn't understand my grandmother's language, and somehow find an empty spot by the lake to watch the grandchildren of the swans I tried to feed paper to once; I can't apologise to them any more than I can apologise to my grandmother for what has become of me.
Truthfully, I know why she never took me to that church. She was never one to push her beliefs onto me, rather opting to become a canvas on which I could project my own individualty and paint her in my image. But if I only ever saw her in my image then I never saw the painting hidden under the layers of white - of a life lived down the tree-lined road, past the wisteria-adorned façade and by the swan-filled lake. I saw this place through her eyes but she only ever held a mirror in front of them, and now the mirror is the only thing left. I wish I had the sense to smash the damn thing.
I can't speak to the dead, let alone a body that has now been lifeless for 14 years, 4 months and 4 days, lying in a coffin shut with nails and locked with cement, under six feet of dirt and gravel. Nobody can. No body can. But maybe this place could. So I walk down the tree-lined road, past the wisteria-adorned façade and by the swan-filled lake; and I listen.
I couldn't possibly choose to recall a singular moment in time, so instead I opted for a place that for me has stopped in time - I hope that makes sense. thank you for reading!