Traveling far
always felt like a dream,
too big, too distant,
not meant for me.
But Positano
called in quiet ways,
the place my ancestors
once called home.
When I closed my eyes
what I wanted to see,
Was a dream of a
visit to the cliff
by the sea.
My family crossed oceans
by ship, then by air,
to see our kin
who were still there.
They returned home
with treasured gifts,
but it was the stories
they’d share
that cast
their spell
on me.
Days turned to years.
Then my nephew went,
a solo trip to the place
of my dreams.
A generation skipped
made me feel
I’d missed my time.
So I picked a date,
made my plans,
each step forward
fueled by wonder
and a long-held wish.
I traced the road
from Rome to sea,
remembering family stories,
cliffs, water below,
a narrow road
with no room to turn.
Frightening, yes.
But every reason to go.
The Tyrrhenian shone,
calm like a home,
framing a church
with its gold dome,
where my family
had married,
had mourned,
had marked their lives.
Hundreds of stairs greet you,
take a deep breath,
step into history.
The beach held no sand,
only smooth gray stone,
massaged by time,
but still showing
Vesuvius’ wrath.
Up on the mountain,
the cemetery waits,
its view
for the living,
but our loved ones
are honored
with the best seat in the house.
One road circles the town.
Miss your stop,
and you’re swept
through the dream again.
We ate olives,
cheese,
warm bread,
with the sea
at our feet.
Oh Positano,
you opened your arms,
embracing and warm,
and I walked right in.
I will return.
But for now,
you live in my chest
like a breath
held tight
that will never
quite let go.
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