Thursday, March 14, 2013


A new pope was chosen yesterday.  While I was working I had one screen streaming the live feed from the Vatican.  Not because I'm a good Catholic - the only Catholic worse than me was probably, I dunno...Hitler - but because it's history.  1.2 billion Catholics in the world - the Pope has influence, whether we want him to or not.

When the last Pope was chosen I was there with the Italian.  We were in Rome for a week, while he worked, and I wrote my thesis (although truthfully I just walked the streets of Rome, ate great pizza and gelato, and dreamed about staying in Rome forever).  We stood in St. Peter's Square surrounded by news affiliates and nuns, and witnessed history.  So naturally, I thought about him yesterday as the events played out on my computer screen.

I'm over the Italian.  I don't think about him every day.  I know that it is the right thing that we are not together.  Still, I love him and always will.  I wear his ring on my right hand.  I am surrounded in my home by things he bought for me or we bought together, and he had a huge influence on who I became as a person, in terms of my tastes and interests.  When we met, I was 24, he was 32.  I was a wide-eyed Canadian student living in London on her own, he was a hip, trendy Italian architect and designer with model looks who had spent time in New York before settling in London.  Now, I'm 32, and he will be 40 this year.  We correspond sometimes on Facebook, and I know he is in a new relationship - "new" going on 2 years or more.  This doesn't bother me - we live worlds away from each other, and want different things from life.  Still, as my mother put it when she came to visit a few weeks ago: "There are only 3 people in this world that can get under your skin and make you crazy: me, Raincity Kitty, and the Italian."

So true.

Anyways, I missed him, and our jet-setting life, as I sat and watched the news yesterday.  As I walked home from the office in the rain last night, I thought, "I should text him and tell him I missed him today."  But I didn't have his number, and was quickly distracted by work thoughts, and the nagging feeling that perhaps I would be stepping on his new girlfriend's toes, and let it go.

This morning, he popped up on Facebook and so I sent him a message:

"I thought of you yesterday when they were choosing the new Pope.  We were there last time!"

His response:

"Did you get my text?"


"No? Did you send me one?"


"An hour ago.  Saying the exact same thing.  Spooky!"


"That was nice of you.  I was thinking about you, too."



I was at work and then had to beat a hasty retreat to the bathroom to have a good cry.  I don't know why it made me cry, or who I was crying for, but it did and I was.

I know we are not together for very good reasons, and that we fought as much as we loved.  That he made me cry as much as he made me laugh.  But today I am missing him, and that effortless synchronicity that we had (and apparently still have), like hell.   I wonder if we ever truly stop missing the people that we love and leave, or who leave us.

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