Wants
I want to push the gate of my parent’s house and shout, “Mom?!” and feel her soft lips pressing, like dewy petals, on my cheeks. I want to see my father’s shadow when he’s peacefully napping on the sofa that’s supposed to be for their guests. I want to hear my brother’s boisterous laughter echoing from his bedroom.
I want to be safely tucked on the passenger seat, while my best friend navigates through our hometown. I’d say, “The last time someone drove me home, I forgot to say thank you.” and I know she’d say, “It’s okay, he doesn’t deserve it.” and perhaps, driving around the town won’t hurt anymore.
I want to take my grandma’s hands in mine, caressing the blue veins along her wrinkled skin, before tugging her to dance waltz with me. I’d whisper, “Lead the dance like in my dream,” it should be oddly ended by promenade foxtrot. Her smile would be as beautiful as that lady’s on kruissteek that was once hanging on her dining room’s wall.
And I still want to tell a story to one person, that every time I did it, it’d feel like I just told the whole world.
Then perhaps I’d still want to hug an olive tree in Tuscany, probably pluck the olives too if few farmers there need a hand. Perhaps I’d still want to sail to Budelli just to ask, “Come stai?” to Mauro Morandi, listen to Chopin’s Noctrune №2 in E-flat Major, Op. 9, №2, in Théâtre du Châtelet, walk on a snowy street then write my name on it using a fallen twig of a young sycamore tree, also eat fish and chips at Central Park, or is it Hyde Park?
Few things I’m so sure of though, I want to fly a kite on a dry field just like I did when I was kid. This time I’ll make it fly so high to the vast blue sky, like it could touch the cirrus cloud. I’d wonder if it’s a soft blowing breeze, when someone strokes my hair. And that will be the last thing I want my mind to think and my eyes to see before they wither and close for the last time.
