summer in a quiet town

Her birthday is still marked on my calendar. 

Her and my grandfather were the harbingers of my childhood summers. I was once a child in a small town. Fondly, I remember how excited I used to get about absolutely nothing. I was there for every festa. 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 frightened me. Although, my fear was often short-lived; Eurovision season generally followed. I'd then be distracted for a solid five days. 

June marked the end of the scholastic year. Summer would thus begin and, so would the sleepovers. Ah, and of course, the unlimited Kinnie and milky buttons at my disposal. Nowadays, I don't recognise my grandfather anymore. He seems lost without her. Every year, a part of him slips away, too. 

My grandmother was one of eleven children. 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 hot sun, and being just a tad too loud in the piazza. 

My father’s side of the family insists that I look like her. 

Now, most people that were prominent figures in my childhood, I only see at their funerals. The condolences to their loved ones are always inundating: that awkward "I'm sorry for loss" followed by a long-winded trip down memory lane, reminisced over Tetley and dry krustini. 

The town seems empty, now.

After my visits, I often wonder: should I have aimed for this simple life? I've been at my limit for a while now. I just know that I would not adapt to the quiet village life. Although, the people there are the salt of the Earth. Gossip runs fresh on the vine, but they'll be the first ones to knock on your door when you need a helping hand. 

However, I’ve only ever 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. The dichotomy is always sobering. I left this village and, them? Well, they will probably die here. 

No one will be waiting for me if I go back. 

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 travel a lot; you must meet a lot of different people and have so many stories."

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". I'm 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 that small traditionally working-class town. A friend told me: "stop trying to make yourself relatable to everyone, just own who you are. You're not there anymore." 

Often, I feel as though this constant change I go through is pointless; what am I doing this for, exactly?

She would know what to say. She had this natural maternal way about her. She made me see the world through her eyes. And, then - that simplicity - it wasn't so bad. 

Subconsciously, I suppose, I've always associated summer with her. She was my personal ray of sunshine; one the Earth specifically reserved for me. Here, the sun doesn't feel the same. The lack of sunlight now teases me like lemons dangling on the highest branch. It's always cold. I carry her necklace. I wear her ring. I have a picture of her framed above my desk. I carry the start of summer sunshine every where I go. Yet, winter's haze keeps pulling me down. 

I'm ashamed that I generally forgot to wish her a happy birthday when she was still alive.