Aria

I visited Italy because of a student exchange, near the Switzerland border, and it was the first time I would leave home, meaning I left behind my mother, my dog, and my comfortable bed to be replaced by a tiny room, a rock-hard bed, and a stranger called Aria. Everything was strange and different; the evening sun had more color in it and shined through her window blinds to illuminate the room just enough for us. We didn’t need any other light. It was hot, so we didn’t need a blanket, and the occasional breeze would cool us. She liked to sit by her window with her naked feet dangling above the pavement, and I watched her hair move with the wind as the clouds filled the sky above her until the sun left us for the night. She wore this dark blue shirt most of the time with wide, overused pants, a bright necklace, and at least five bracelets around her right wrist. I had too much homesickness to properly perceive her, but after I finished crying, I watched her by the window and acknowledged the uniqueness of her beauty. In her room then, things felt different—more collected and calmer—and once, when she did notice the tears in my eyes, she got up from the window, sat beside me, and slept. 

Most of our time was spent here, and that way, sometimes she’d teach me a bit of Italian, and I taught her to speak English. Her mother, who was sweet and wonderful, then forced us to leave the home for her to show me around Italy, and we wandered the streets and visited the café by the sea, where the smell of salty water followed us. Aria showed me true cappuccino and food I hadn’t seen before, and time seemed to be forgotten, and there was only the sun on our skins and her. The road led us to a park, and to a castle still standing, and eventually between tight alleyways and old houses with people on their balconies, watching us as if we were children on a playground.

Somewhere far inside a forest there came a lake with a big tree accompanying it, and she led me to it and sat by the water as if she had done it a hundred times but only by herself, and with time I realized there was more to her; there was childlike wonder and playfulness still alive and active; there was a lonesome tragedy to the way she watched me and everything around her. She played with her thumbs, and her breath was heavy when she showed me her sacred spot by the lake, as if she was unsure of my reaction, afraid I might leave and hate her for no apparent reason. I smiled, and she calmed down, so we sat under the tree for a while. This time she turned to me, and her face hardened in my mind, became clearer and would slowly fill my heart each time she looked at me. We visited the lake every day, and despite hot or rainy days, we jumped into the water. To dry off, we sat by the sun or under the tree and laughed. I remember how the grass scratched the inside of my palms when I told her, “I have to leave in two days.”

At the word “leave” she looked away, beyond the lake, in an attempt to have misheard it, but she knew she heard it right. 

“When?” she said. 

“Due giorni.”

My heart then dropped, too, when I knew what I had said was true: I would be back home in two days. A sense of sorrow was around us as we sat there, but we still stayed until dark. 

The days grew closer and time became relevant again. On the last day, we spent it mostly in her room, lit only by the evening sun, with her seated by the window. I finally joined her by the small window frame, and we watched the sun disappear together. Our feet dangled and sometimes touched; I would entangle my feet in hers, the stars glittering in the night sky, and we talked and forgot about everything.

She had said something in Italian. I never understood exactly what she said, and I think she said it in Italian on purpose. It felt as if she had told the night a secret.

She slept beside me on that tiny bed in the corner. I listened to the crickets through the opened window and the wind stood still. Watching her sleep made me think about home and how to bring home to my other home, then I slept peacefully just to wake up into the worst morning. I hugged her goodbye, and her mother kissed me on the cheek, and I haven’t seen her since. 

Arriving home to see my mother’s smile filled me with joy, but beneath that joy hid the presence of sorrow, which became clearer and overshadowed everything else by the sight of my empty window. Memories of our time came back and with them sadness. Maybe when I’m older, I will visit Italy again. I will find the castle, walk between the tight alleyways, and run through a forest to find the tree by the lake. 

Dion Enis Nikci is a writer and filmmaker from Germany. Dion enjoys writing all sorts of things and has just finished a comic book script. He also likes going for walks and drinking coffee. 

A Song for Dion