“Where did it go? Why is it going behind me? Oh it’s smelling me!”, she said. As I sat on my knees filming her play with the black cat with the white spots. 

I believe there are symbols chasing us throughout this journey. Reminders, to know where we started from and how far we have come. Every now and then I encounter a cat that looks exactly the same. I stare at her from the window, it looks at me for a minute and disappears. Similar to how we never found that cat again on the beach.

That day, I learned the most beautiful word I could ever hear in my life– Luvhon. I remember instantly being intrigued. I love saying it to this day, for no reason. Luvhon?

The fur is also a symbol. Not just the jacket, but the different furs we encountered on the countless dogs we met. And the cats, too. How the fur of the cat in the window across the street in Portici, matched exactly to the golden one we met near Claudio. Caramel.

Caramel is also a symbol. Not just the popcorn, but the shade my hair turned out to be after unsuccessful tries. Like the streaks in her hair that she loved so much. How the color of the wood in this house matches exactly to the color of her beloved altar. Wood.

Wood is also a symbol. Not just the two chairs we sat on talking endlessly, but the little box for the wedding ring I still keep safely. Like that tree branching out in the new year picture. How the yellow of that picture matches exactly with the cup she kept safe for this long. Yellow.

Yellow is also a symbol. Not just the vanilla cup I ran for in the gelataria, but the sunsets we spent hours upon. Like the spicy laddoos out of Hyderabad. How the spice threw both of us off exactly like the Buldak chronicle. Spice.

Spice is also a symbol. Not just the spicy pasta we indulged in while (not) watching the movie together, but the food made by her on my birthday. Like the extra glass of water she happily brings upstairs when she knows the food is going to be spicy. How she still smiles when she comes upstairs knowing I will love the food. Stairs.

Stairs are also a symbol. Not just the daunting stairs in Amalfi, but the dreadful few steps after I dropped her off at the train in Rome. Like the 2 little steps we had to climb just after she said, “not dead” in the lobby. How she was afraid to tell me she fell down the stairs, the fear being more terrifying than the pain itself. Pain.

Pain is also a symbol. Not just the infinite burns she got on her slender hands cooking for me, but the beautiful crushing of her nail into my wound. Like two veins colliding, the friction resulting in love. How she hated me after that, how relieved I was after. Relief.

Relief is also a symbol. Not just the relief of knowing she is safe, but having her at my arms length. Like there is not a worry in the world. How much I want that relief. How uncertain I am to know when I will get it. The only symbol I don’t have. Relief.