Widow. Widow. Widow. Widow. Widow. Widow. Widow. Widow. Widow. Widow. Widow. Widow. Widow. Widow. Widow.

A tear slipped from my eye, slowly drawing its way down my cheek, warm. It still sounded wrong to my ears. It wasn’t me. It still isn’t me. I am not a widow. My husband is only dead.

The only things I did that day were buy a ticket to Rome for the very next day and pack a bag. I hadn’t managed to pack nearly enough clothes though, because everything I owned reminded me I was no longer married, and so I brought only his t-shirt, which I couldn’t leave behind, a bikini, underwear, my toiletries and the jeans and t-shirt I wore to board the plane. I ended up using the money he convinced me not to spend on the flowers buying new clothes in Italy.

Once I got to Rome, I ignored all the emails and phone calls from my office. I guess they were from colleagues who were wondering if I’d ever come back to work. I still wonder, really. I bought a train ticket to the Amalfi coast. I figured that at least here I’d be able to wear the bikini I had brought. I found a little apartment in Positano, in a pink villa with a large stone balcony overlooking the sea, tiny at the bottom of the mountain. It feels humbling, to be so small next to something so mighty. I like that. I didn’t speak any Italian when I first arrived, but two months later, I can manage to get groceries, order limoncello at the sea-front bars, communicate with the landlady, and get directions when I go exploring. The language barrier makes it so that I don’t bond much with the people here. It’s a relief not to be able to tell my story. I don’t know that I could, anyway.

I spend most days sitting on the stone balcony on a pile of great, big, colored cushions, drinking wine, eating fresh tomatoes, cheese, and meats. The book I brought along with me has been lying next to me untouched, day after day. It seems I can’t crack its cover, so instead I stare out to the sea and get lost in its waves, in my thoughts and in my memories. I go down to the beach and swim for hours. I bought a mask and snorkel at a local shop, on a whim. I went in to buy a beach towel and flip-flops, things I hadn’t thought to pack. I float on the water’s surface and watch the fish swim below me, while slowly breathing in and out of the purple plastic tube. They seem so peaceful, swimming around, having no other purpose in life than to feed and to breed. They’re hypnotizing, really. So I watch them day after day, while I sway with the waves. I feel lost in space, like I am no one, nowhere, floating.

Sometimes I walk around the village, looking at the colorful stores full of white lace and coral jewelry. When I saw the woman walking down the steep, roughly paved street in six-inch heels I almost felt him put his arm around my waist, like he would, bending down to whisper in my ear: “Why would anyone pretend it’s a good idea to walk these streets in those heels? Is she trying to break an ankle?” In that moment he was everywhere, taking my breath away, tingling through my fingers. I stopped in my tracks, a smile ran from my lips and I closed my eyes, feeling his lingering breath on my cheek and in my ear. Heart racing, cheeks flushed, I fought hard to keep him with me, but I knew when I opened my eyes all I would find was the emptiness of the crowded street. So I kept them closed, and him close, a minute longer.

Last night, I couldn’t sleep, so I hiked to the top of the mountain, in the middle of the night. I followed a path in the moonlight and I watched the sun rise over the mountains, lighting the sea with unimaginable colors. It was beautiful, but I was empty. So empty. I wept a long time for not feeling him at all in that moment.

When I came back down, I walked straight to the docks and took a ferry to Capri. It’s said to be one of the most beautiful islands in the world. I can plainly see why. The town is so colorful and alive with merchants and fishermen bustling around the docks in front of a never-ending line of ocean-view restaurants. I skipped the chairlift to walk up the hill in the little, unevenly paved pedestrian roads. Charming villa followed charming villa, all surrounded by vines, olive trees and flowers of every bright color. The little houses painted in pinks and yellows and blues … The journey up took about two hours, as I stopped to pet the stray cats and smell the plants, basking in the sun. I was sweating by the time I reached the town square at the top, and settled on my bench, hiding under my wide-brimmed straw hat.

The streets behind me are teeming with children running around and begging their parents for gelato, couples taking pictures in front of the viewpoints, friends drinking iced limoncello on the patios, locals talking animatedly to one another, as Italians do so well.

Widow.

No. I cannot be a widow. Any way I look at it, I can’t make the word mine. It’s like a shoe that doesn’t, can’t, won’t fit.

I walk away from the bench to the far side of the island, farther from the square and the swarms of people, and make my way up to the emperor’s fortress. The great structure is set at the highest point, overlooking the sea by the cliffs. It’s a large stone building in pretty good shape, considering it’s a ruin. The red stone walls keep the empty rooms nice and cool, but as I walk back out onto the ramparts and into the sunlight, the midday heat is made bearable only by the sea breeze. Over the wall, a steep cliff drops down straight into the sea, where waves crash onto the rocks over, and over, and over again. Steady as the rhythm of my heart.

I pull the rings from my finger and look at the silver and ice gleaming in my palm. Slowly, I turn my hand to the side and let them slip out, right over the edge. I never hear them hit the water, neither do I watch them fall.

Home is where the heart is, and I don’t know the Italian word for widow.