Say Yes (Nostalgic Summer Romance)

“I see now that the purpose of self-progress is not to pursue perfection, but to move closer to the truth of who we really are, to untangle our deepest fears and doubts, and arrive in that tender, blissful place where we are free to be our purest, boundless selves.”

— Beau Taplin, The Glade of Self

There were no words for this pain.

Of course, many had tried to find them, tried to string consonants and vowels together, to form a combination of syllables that could encompass this indescribable state of being.

Heartbroken seemed to be the one that came closest to the truth, but it still failed to do the job.

I understood where that word came from. It was that feeling of weight on your chest, the splitting of your rib cage, the way your heart seemed to be tied up in restrictive chains keeping it from fully beating the way it once did before.

It was that gut-wrenching ache in the very pit of who you are, the one that screams out in pain for the loss of what once was, that claws against the walls of your stomach like if it fights hard enough, it can somehow capture and hold onto what never could truly be.

It was desperation and despair in equal measure.

It was a gaping hole never to be filled again.

It was an untouchable feeling of having the source of all the joy in your life ripped away suddenly and violently, and the horrific realization that you’d never have it again.

There were no words for this pain.

There were no words for this torture.

There were no words for this strange purgatory where I felt dead inside and somehow more alive than ever.

There were no words.

So, I wiped my face. I took a deep breath.

And I attempted to paint it.

The Art of a Dying Planet

Three Months Earlier

Everything felt alive and fragile that summer, like a bomb humming just under the surface of an unsuspecting crowd.

Our planet was getting warmer, all thanks to us, and we were seeing first-hand the damage we had done. Blizzards wreaked havoc on the northeast, hurricanes rocked the southeast coasts, fires burned and the earth quaked in the west. There were planes crashing and missiles being tested in China, and oil spilling into our oceans and all the while, our eyes were focused on the remarkable Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls as they chased their fourth championship.

We cheered on our Olympians as they prepared for the summer, sang every word to every Spice Girls song, and watched trailers for movies like Twister and Independence Day as if those disasters were a far-off dystopian fantasy, as opposed to the very reality we lived in.

I felt the buzz of it flowing through me like a current from the very moment my plane touched down in Rome, Italy. I felt it swirl and rush inside me on the train out to Florence, and as I settled in for a summer studying abroad, I swore just one wrong step — or perhaps, one right step — would trigger the explosion.

My sling-back Mary Janes made a plunk sound each time I took a step on the cobble streets that made up the historic little town of Florence, or Firenze, as the Italians called it. My brushes were wrapped in a leather satchel against my hip, the strap crossing my body, and I held two giant textbooks on Florentine art against my chest.

It was the summer of 1996, and I was twenty-two years old.

I left America on a rainy night in May, waving farewell to my parents and the Atlanta airport with excitement bubbling in my belly. I woke groggy halfway around the world to a sunny and warm Italian morning.

Three months in Florence to study art.

Three months to hone my craft.

Three months to make something of myself or surrender to my parents’ wishes for me to use my accounting degree rather than my art one.

Just the thought of it sent a chill down my spine.

It was a pleasantly warm morning as I walked the short distance from my dorm room to the cluster of buildings that made up our campus in the middle of Florence. My blonde hair was in its usual state of natural waves, tucked behind both ears, strands of it getting stuck on my yin & yang earrings. My makeup was made up of warm and neutral, lips painted a matte brick red, and lashes painted long with my favorite mascara. The black choker my best friend gave me before I left the States hugged my neck, and I wore my favorite pair of paint-splattered overalls over a simple white spaghetti strap top. A forest green and navy blue plaid, long-sleeve shirt tied around my waist completed the look, along with my dark, round sunglasses.

One hand held my textbooks against my chest, the other was tucked inside my right pocket, as it usually was.