A novel inspired by the word ‘Gone’.
For Francesca, Nonna and my Turkish delight, I miss you.
Gone
‘Gone’ couldn’t describe it. ‘Gone’ suggests that something had been there and was now no more. This was deeper than that. Almost as if something had been there and now, it hadn’t. Emptiness was more the word. Like when you try to imagine no universe, no existence, no atoms, nothing. Your mind boggles; it’s beyond the human brain; beyond any form of sane thinking.
For 10 years I had lived in existence and now, there was no proof of myself. I can look down and see my body standing there but it’s not enough. No-body is here to look with me. My sister had been everything to me and I couldn’t and still can’t imagine life without her. Here it is… this is it isn’t it. This emptiness is my life now. The space that she had filled was now the space that eats away at me, the space I now have to live with. In this beautiful apartment which now feels as though it is someone else’s; almost as if I have stepped into somebody’s home unwelcome and unwanted.
My sister had been lively; she constantly hit the nail on the head with her brilliant blunt sayings. She would never fuss around; never did anything by halves, but tackled everything with fiery determination. She’d constantly have things she planned to do. She filled her time with dinners and outings; parties and men. She made people feel as if life was there to be lived; not to waste away behind a desk pushing pencils.
But the truth was, when she was at home- and not at one of her various bars, friends’ houses, parties etc- she would sit on the vine covered balcony and stay silent; for hours, thinking. She would watch the lovers walk hand in hand or wrapped around each other lovingly, pointing at the beautiful architecture of the streets buildings or admiring the funny knick-knacks at the shop displays. She would shed a tear for a couple walking either side of a small child; women pushing prams and men with little ones on their shoulders, wives behind them laughing but ready to catch their child if it fell.
Francesca had had many friends, many lovers but she had not loved one of them. She had loved me- I know that- but there was always something missing. She certainly wasn’t as happy as me to settle down in an apartment with only a sister for company. But she had always been like that, family wasn’t enough for her; especially when Mamma and Papa passed away leaving nothing but memories. But she was a cynic, however much she daydreamed, she thought that her daydreams were far from what she would find in reality; and so, she kept them apart.
The men she let herself be with were arrogant and shallow. She went looking in all the wrong places; but she did it on purpose. Francesca believed that if she didn’t love the man she was with then he would never hurt her- which is true. She went to bars, clubs and parties when she knew all too well that she should be looking in little, honest restaurants; shops on the little windy streets; beaches and mountain farms. The man she would love would be honest, deep, hardworking, modest and caring- if a little bit of a mothers’ boy- but then again, most men are- in Tuscany.
Something had eaten away at her soul ever since she was old enough to know what the word ‘love’ meant. Through her cynicism she knew that love was a very important thing in our lives. A pain greater than many had spread out from her heart to her brain; as it spread further and further inside her, like a cancer, changing her very being. She was full of light and happiness one minute and the next she was a silent mourner, mourning her own dreams as she watched other people live theirs. She became a beautiful, deep and soulful space of empty air and now that space has been replaced by nothing… Atoms of oxygen and carbon are all I have left of that beautiful space that I love so very much.
Eventually, that pain that had spread through her mental being, turned physical. A pain different, but almost as painful without the drugs to numb it, spread over a course of three years. Blackness spread over her body while she fought for her life against it. We had tried Chemo, Radio, and eventually, herbal therapy. Nothing had worked and finally she had turned her notice in, hands up; 28 and ready to leave her sister behind. But after three years of fighting and eventual death, I didn’t, and don’t blame her. She was the strongest, most wonderful person I ever knew and I tried my hardest to make her last few months the happiest she had ever had; I pray to the ancient Roman Gods that I have succeeded. I need at least that.
Now, I sit alone drinking my coffee on the balcony, watching the sun set over this strange new land. This city I know so well; and yet, it no longer feels like home. Like I’m on a holiday in an unknown land that is so beautiful, but I secretly want to go home. I want to see my sister and go out with her to Cielo Blu Ristorante. But I know in my heart of hearts that I will never hear of her again. She is missing, she is a lost soul and so am I. How can I possibly carry on?
The house is full of her belongings. Her books, poems, clothes and cd’s surround me constantly. Her favourite cd’s are on her bed; Ryan Adams, the Smiths and Bob Marley. My cd’s show a softer nature in comparison; Bryan Adams, Bob Marley and Jack Johnson. Our difference in taste was subtle really; she liked ‘No woman, no cry’ and ‘Concrete Jungle’. I liked ‘Is this love’ and ‘Three little birds’.
I had believed in love strongly with my sister by my side but now it seems that love is far away. Love is life and I am, hardly, alive. My soul mate is dead and I’m dead along with her. I walk through my house as if it is a museum; I am cautious, I don’t know what I should or should not touch and I know nothing about the objects inside. I used to know that stove; I used to know that bookcase; I also knew that coffee pot and that cd. But now it all seems alien, even in the familiar summer light, my home is suddenly just a place to survive. Survive for what I ask you? Francesca was the only thing keeping me going of a morning. Sometimes I would sit with her, reading my book or watching what she’d be watching and I’d think to myself ‘I love this, please, never let this end’. It’s not as if I ever took her life for granted. I have no regrets except the ones that, perhaps, are really her regrets and not mine at all.
She had been cremated at the funeral service and I was given the ashes of her remains.
I’m not sentimental; I haven’t kept them like some senile old woman. Mostly because I know that if Francesca were here she’d be saying ‘What are you holding on to them for? Can they make Lasagne?’
I have thrown them into the sea. She loved the beach; she loved the water running into her ears and hair. My sister is, quite literally, sleeping with the fishes now.