Well, it has been just over a year; it's no where close to over. Here is what I have to say:
The grief process has been like climbing The Spanish Steps in the searing heat of July...at times you want to say to hell with it, and just sit down. But once you get up there, you can look behind you, amazed at how far you have come. Not too shabby, Nick, not too shabby.
I climbed the half of the 135 steps on the fifth of July with my mother. It was hot, the sun blinding, and there were hoards of people each way I turned. I had travelled to Italy for this express purpose: to leave Cory's shoes, untouched where she'd last left them by our back door, on The Spanish Steps. Someone would inevitably pick them up, and wear them, allowing her spirit to continue to journey somewhere on this planet. I don't know about you, but in my opinion, nineteen years is just not enough.
People had asked me before I left home if I was sure I could leave her shoes there. Could I leave them behind? Heck yeah, I'd told them. I believe in the beauty of symbolism and the sacredness of rituals. Some rituals are commonly used, but the most important ones you make up to fit your need.
I climbed the steps halfway with Mom, and placed her shoes in a quiet corner, and began snapping pictures. None of them were turning out. The sun was too bright, and the spot didn't feel right at all. I don't know if it was the heat or my realization that I was, in a way, turning a page I'd wanted to reread until I drew my last breath. I still wasn't ready for my time with Cory to be over. She'd been gone for a year, I'd flown across the ocean, I'd climbed about 63 steps, and I still couldn't do it. Nope, not happenin'.
Remember my rage at the cemetery? Oh, buddy, that was nothing compared to this... I got so mad that there wasn't the sense of calm and accepting grace that I'd fully expected, that I began to shake all over.
"Let's just go, Mom. Nothing is right. I can't see what I'm doing. None of the pictures are turning out. This just isn't working!" I seethed, hot tears blurring my vision as I stumbled away from the bottom of the Spanish Steps.
Huffing and puffing, I stalked away from those stupid steps, my mother in tow, to catch a taxi. We were headed to the train station. Apparently I was going to put my rage on the rails, and hope for the best. Yeah, I wasn't really in my highest level of problem solving right then.
Figuring out how to travel regionally when in a foreign country is probably a skill best learned when you are not so mad you cannot see straight. My heart felt shredded, just shredded...like someone had taken it firmly in hand, even as it continued to beat, and grated it against metal far too dull and rusty to do the job.
If you are one of those people who will cry when mad enough, imagine being too angry to cry, and that is just how I felt on the journey to Naples...what a lovely travel companion I must have been. Mom and I had our pizza, and travelled back to Rome. I packed it in for the night, and spent the next day drawing up my courage to try again.
On July seventh, in the early morning, before the crowds had gathered, we went back. I climbed every step, determined to finish this errand for my girl. She would think it was cool, she would see the beauty, and I couldn't let her down.
A kind woman saw Mom struggling with the camera, and offered to take pictures. Kneeling down to kiss Cory's shoes was a humbling, emotional moment. For that second in time, she was smooshed up against me, her cheek within easy reach, and I was allowed just once more to kiss her face. It was worth the trip, the heat, the pain, and every one of the steps that I climbed. It was everything.
Walking away from her shoes, I looked over my shoulder, and began sobbing. Mom soon joined me. We stopped midway down to lean on each other and just bawl. I wasn't angry anymore, just completely heartbroken. When we reached the bottom, I looked up to glimpse the carriage drivers and their horses waiting for customers, and grabbed Mom's arm.
"Hey, Mom, wanna go for a ride? Cory would've loved it." I said.
"Yeah, she sure would've, bless her heart. She loved horses." Mom said.
Moments later, we were smiling into the camera, arms around each other, sitting happily behind Profedo the horse, as our driver, Victor showed us the sights of Rome. Mom and I kept busy counting hot Italian men, and reached an even dozen before we returned to the Spanish Steps.
When we got there, I ran up them to see if her shoes were still there. They were there, tourists leaning over to look at her picture and read the words on the back. I smiled, and trooped back down to report back to Mom. It was a whole lot easier to walk away than it'd been an hour ago. She was still here; she was being seen.
Later that night, after a delectable pasta dinner at a sidewalk bistro Cory would've loved, we walked back to check again. They were gone. Maybe, just maybe, it hadn't all been for nothing.
Instead of feeling sad to see them gone, I put a hand on my heart, and hoped with all my might that whoever was wearing them would remember the girl in the picture left resting on top of them, and take her along to places she'd never been before.
One step at a time.
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