I just found a beautiful old love letter from my husband Sean that expresses how I feel each time he visits me here in Florence and goes back to England again:
“Each time you visit me all of my world tips a touch, tips to your touch, and I need to revise my charts and tap the compass, take my bearings, being swirled afresh…
and my chart now appears a scrub of scribbles, rubbings out over revisions over projected paths, to the point where the paper wears thin, and soon I shall vanish completely, lost through the hole in the centre, falling off the edge of the world. And in the darkness I find you.”
In just over a week I might be able to visit him in England for several weeks before moving into a new apartment in Florence. If the immigration guards let me in. The same ones who ushered me out under “threat of arrest and detention” after seizing my passport.
The ironically named “Home Office” gave my daughter and me just two weeks to pack up our whole lives and move away. That was August, 2015.
It’s been almost two years that my husband and I have had to live apart – him in England, me in Italy – thanks to immigration misunderstandings and bureaucracy.
Almost two years since I’ve been allowed in England.
I’m scared and excited, wondering what will happen. They should let me in. I’m legal.
I’m the wife of an Englishman.
I worked for nearly two years to obtain my Italian residency card, I have my American passport…
Fingers crossed that we can be a regular married couple soon. Enough adventure, enough exoticism.
Enough falling through the eraser-worn pages of projected plans and dreams, of falling off the edge of the world.
Fingers crossed that after all this time, all this trauma, we can finally live together in the same country.
Fingers crossed that our infinity scarf holds tight.