summer in a quiet town

Her birthday is still on my calendar. I really miss her, lately. 

Her and my grandfather were the harbingers of my childhood summers. 

Two of her brothers recently died; and it dredged up the past. That of being a child in Ħal-Tarxien, and how excited I used to get about everything. I was there for every festa. And, every year, the parish put out one particular statue on display: that of the archangel Michael slaying the devil. My grandfather reminded me, recently, of how afraid I was of it. There was something about the way they carved the evil misery in the devil's eyes, and the bright damning red they painted him with, that scared me. Although, my fear was often short-lived; Eurovision season generally followed. I'd be distracted for a solid three days. 

School would end in June. Summer would thus begin and, so would the sleepovers at Nanna and Nannu's. Ah, and of course, the unlimited Kinnie and milky buttons at my disposal. They had a special “Kinnie cupboard” reserved just for me. And yes, if you're wondering, I was fat as a child. Nowadays, I don't recognise my grandfather anymore. He seems lost without her, too. He's the only real connection I have to my childhood there and, every year, a part of him slips away. 

My grandmother was one of eleven children. Only two of her siblings are still alive, and they're in Australia. Though, it always takes me by surprise: how much of her bloodline still lingers in that town. Her sister had lived a few streets over. Her brothers, too. Everyone knew whose granddaughter I was when I left the house to buy a carton of milk for my grandparents. If I so much as crossed the street, one of my father's many cousins would be out and about somewhere; sipping a te fit-tazza, lapping up the summer sun, and being just a tad too loud in the piazza. My father’s side of the family still insists that I look like her. 

Most people that were prominent figures in my childhood, I now only give condolences to. The awkward formalities after someone dies are always tricky: that awkward "I'm sorry for loss" followed by a long-winded trip down memory lane, reminisced over Tetley and dry krustini. The dichotomy between them and me is always refreshing: they stayed in the village they were born in, and they will probably die there. They're the salt of the Earth, though. They will gossip behind your back, but they'll be the first ones to knock on your door when you need a helping hand. The town seems empty, now. If I move back, what will I be moving back to?

After my visits, I often wonder: should I have aimed for a simpler life? I've been at my limit for a while now. Admittedly, I don't think I’d fit into that; the quiet village life. Unfortunately, I’ve always thrived on chaos. I'm at my best when I'm alone: when no one is interfering with my freedom. I only miss the community when I'm away from it. In it, I'm suffocating. 

All I know is that summers there will never feel the same. 

Believe me, the thought has crossed my mind: I'd settle down there, restart my life there. Learn how to live with it: the peace. The delightful simplicity of it all. Here, I keep hoping that my life will sort itself out, somehow. Maybe, I should start hoping that the archangel Michael himself falls out of the sky. 

I have never lived with such uncertainty before; I just don't see the point of it anymore. People tell me I lead an interesting life: "you must travel a lot; meet a lot of different people." Are they saying this because they feel sorry for me? Wherever I went, those around me have hurt me; most people around me have betrayed me, abused me, taken advantage of me - at least once. I have been insulted; I have been judged; I have been dismissed. Everyday, I drown. I'm underwater. I stretch my body out towards the surface. And, everyday, it moves farther and farther away from my reach. What exactly am I doing here?

I face accusations such as "you're just an entitled Northerner" or am slammed with a "don't be so out of touch" whenever I comment about the state of things. I'm sure many people have the impression that I have some form of superiority complex. It's always a passing joke. Although, I’m not sure what should be funny and what shouldn’t be, anymore. Instinctively, I always bring up that I'm from Ħal-Tarxien. I was called out on this last summer: "stop trying to make yourself relatable to everyone, just own who you are." He's right, I suppose. I'm not the same person I was there and I haven't been, in a long time. 

She would know what to tell me to make me feel better, though. She wasn't a poet laureate, but she had this natural maternal way about her which brought me ease; comfort. When I spoke to her; I saw the world through her eyes. And, it wasn't so bad. 

Subconsciously, I suppose that I always associated summer with her. She was my personal ray of sunshine; a ray the Earth specifically reserved for me. I miss the brightness she brought me. I’m constantly reaching for that same sunlight. But, it teases me, like lemons dangling on the highest branch. It's unreachable. Here, the sun doesn't feel the same. It's still cold, somehow. Sometimes, I feel as though this constant change I go through is pointless; what am I doing this for, exactly? I'm reaching for the start of summer sunshine but winter's haze keeps pulling me down. 

I carry her necklace. I wear her ring. I have a picture of her framed above my desk. I carry the sun everywhere I go. And, it's deliciously ironic that I generally forgot to wish her a happy birthday when she was still alive.