Priscilla Lopez

Summer is over and here are a few things
you’ve missed since you’ve been gone:
I graduated high school with honors.
Stanford sent me an acceptance letter.
But I rejected Stanford.

Mom is upset, naturally. The countless tears shed, the endless hours spent dedicated to homework to ensure an acceptance to my top school, seemed all for naught. I like to think you would be proud of me for walking away though.

I made the cover of a small fashion magazine
no one has ever heard of.
I used the money to travel Europe for two months.
I visited Jack in London.

Tío wasn’t too happy I used his ex-boyfriend as free lodging, but something told me I had to go with what little money I had. Something inside me pulled me away from the confinements of our childhood home and just go.

I visited the Buckingham Palace.
I stole a book from The British Library for you,
your favorite: Frankenstein.
I attended an open-mic night and
read the poem you wrote about an old love.

I know the pieces you wrote about missing were pieces of him, but some of those pieces are pieces of you I miss too. Pieces I quietly read aloud, pieces I swallowed down, pieces I sobbed over in front of a crowd of strangers. Pieces.

Jack flew me to Paris
but didn’t let me take the reins this time.
The Eiffel Tower is much smaller in person,
but even the thousands of illuminated lights
brought me to my knees.
I ate 13 chocolate croissants.

Jack watched in awe, but I knew you would egg me on after the first three. Like that one time we played the marshmallow game, you stuffed too many marshmallows in your mouth and you couldn’t talk. I tried giving up after five marshmallows but, mouth-full, you kept pushing me to stuff more marshmallows in my mouth. I devoured those chocolate croissants. I wore crumbs and smears of chocolate on my face like a badge of honor.

We made our way to Italy
where we temporarily departed in Milan.
I walked the fashion streets
in an oversized, velour, black tracksuit
and sneakers—I can imagine us matching
and laughing as people judged us.
As I loomed over the Teatro Alla Scala,
a ticketer convinced me to watch
Romeo and Juliet the play.

In the nosebleeds, I watched their tragic story unfold before me, dampening my cheeks with tears. Your voice echoed in my head as I wiped away the tears telling me, “That’s love alright. Love is a strange weakness because it means you have something to lose.” I wept even harder.

Jack picked me up a few days later
and we went south.
I tasted wine for the first time—real wine,
not the cheap stuff.
While on a hike at il Sentiero Degli Dei,
I twisted my ankle.

Sissy, it was so beautiful. The crisp, cool air engulfed me as I reached the peak. I held my breath as I met the overlook. I gazed at the greenery on the rocky mountains, entranced by the formations shaped into steep steps, and noted the different shades of blue in the ocean down below. I wondered if I could fly in that moment then I cried. I cried.

A nonnina and her grandson spotted me limping
on my way down and Jack poorly helping me.
They beckoned us inside their modest home,
offering us fresh bread and seasoned tomatoes.
She taught me how to make true Italiano ravioli di zucca.

Like the kind we had at il Farro Café Trattoria for my 16th birthday. I remembered how much you liked the sage and butternut squash ravioli di zucca. When I mentioned it to nonnina, we stopped all conversations, cleaned ourselves up, and began cooking in the small kitchen she had made thousands of dishes for her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

We flew back to London
where Jack would see me off,
but when it was time to go home,
I wasn’t sure where I was going.
Mom was waiting for me in California,
school was waiting for me in New York,
but pieces of you were scattered
everywhere and nowhere in between
and I wasn’t sure where I was going.

I wondered if this is how you felt, in those last moments between your last breaths. If you felt loss in this enormous world and deemed it too great. I wondered if you felt unsure where you belonged and decided you would sit neither here nor there. I wondered if you forgot about us in those last moments, if I could just remind you: you weren’t alone. I wondered.

So, I’m writing this to you,
in hopes you’ll materialize one day
and tell me I’m on the right path.

But until then, I’ll think about you in everything I do. I’ll overstuff myself with homemade ravioli, hearing you cheer me on. I’ll graduate NYU and feel you standing there with me. I’ll trek mountains and see you
in the clouds looming over. I’ll find solace in the pieces you’ve left behind. Pieces of you.

Reincarnate