I stand to receive the flags for Graduation in Ray Manus Stadium and listen to the Roswell senior chorus harmonize the National Anthem. My dress sticks to my butt in this 90 degree weather and I think of the basilica of St. Francesco, where I would be if I wasn't here. I remember the air conditioning, the lapus lazuli rendition of baby Jesus and Mary talking about who loves him more between St. John the Evangelist or St. Frances himself, and the ornate wood mosaics. But it's May 23rd and my sister stands on the field in a forest green gown, ready to walk across a stage and turf.
I hear about cheap leather belts and bags, about how cool the tour was and how the man at the leather store was super nice. Everyone's named Mauro or Luca, it seems. I swipe through pictures while names that aren't my sister are called. I think back to the gelato that I didn't eat, the pigeons, the graffiti that I don't see on cement walls in America, and I'm abroad-sick. When my sister tells me "Thank you for coming," my heart swells against my ribs, pushes my lungs back and up into my throat, keeps words from coming out.
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