Full circle.
86 years ago. October 1929.
My brave Italian grandma, just 20 years old, marries a man she hardly knows and moves to the United States. She speaks no English. Yet. But she is home.
47 years ago. April 1968.
My first real memory. A bright spring day, celebrating 5 years of being alive, bursting into my grandma's warm kitchen. Slurping noodles drenched in warm butter, while the red sauce (that she's spent all day preparing) sighs and stands idly by for the adults who will appreciate it later.
3 months ago. September 2015.
I fly to Italy to meet my forever home for the first time in person. Even though it's hard to make out many details in the dark, I cry tears of true joy the moment I lay eyes on it. The next day we celebrate at the most popular restaurant in our new village. With vibrant red wine I don't usually drink and delectable pasta and pork dishes I wish I could pronounce (or even remember) the names of, in a warm lively atmosphere reminiscent of my childhood. Boisterous laughter and the sing-song lilt of the familiar romance language leaving a heartwarming tingle along my spine.
8 months to go. August 2016.
I will channel my grandma's bravery and move to Italy. I speak no Italian. Yet. But I will be home.
Full circle.
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