It Was Just Us.

 We were in Florence. 

My mom and I were not used to spending this much time together.

None of the other mother-daughter combos with the twangy 

and sometimes embarrassing “We’re from the Deep-South and we know it” accents 

had invited us to dinner. 

It was just us, 

Again.

 

My mom was tired of all the walking, and I was tired of all the Trump-talk and the, 

“Oh, we’re saving this special handmade Italian lace for her wedding” talk on the bus.

Like that was the only thing that mattered in a girl’s life.

Waiting for a wedding.

 

How did I end up… here?

With all of these strangers, on a boxy and uncomfortable, loud tourist-shouting bus in Italy? (I wouldn’t necessarily say this is how I prefer to travel).

 

And what would I tell myself now, three years later?

You really don’t get trips like this with your mom.

Put your phone down- he’s not going to last, and he’s desperate.

You will soon tell all of your friends and every person that begins to say the word Italy,

that this was the best meal you’ve ever had in your life.

 

Creamy, rich pasta with deep maroon, stain-threatening, 

“It’s okay, I’m on vacation and I’m walking home anyway” red wine,

And Mom.

 

Your mom is here,

Your mom is perfect.