Sometimes I wonder if I am hiding when I write.

I’m writing a memoir about a time in my past, almost 20 years ago. It’s easy to get lost in those moments, to disappear and have a hard time finding my way back.

It’s a cold and gray Monday morning here, but in my memoir the sun is shining. I’m writing about Tuscany in late Fall – the air is still warm, the piazzas are full, there are countless places to explore.

If I’m lost in my story, I don’t have to replay in my mind the last time I saw my Mom and watched her sit quiet in a room full of family, knowing she once would have floated around the room telling stories and giving hugs. When I’m writing, I don’t notice her smudged makeup and uncombed hair, her clothes that are now more comfortable than stylish. She’s still beautiful as she smiles and laughs with my children over FaceTime. She wants us to come visit, doesn’t understand all this need for social distancing. When I’m writing in the early mornings, I’m not thinking about how much dementia has stolen from her, from those that love her. I’m not thinking about she forgets to wash her hands only five minutes after I’ve reminded.

If I’m writing about the my research at the University of Florence, how I once learned to speak Italian, and went to incredible art history lectures with friends – then I don’t have to think about how difficult the coming days will be. I don’t have to think about how its been almost a year since my mother-in-law’s unexplained brain infection left her in a care facility that we can no longer visit. If I’m writing, then I’m not wondering when we will see her again.

If I’m writing about hiking the Cinque Terra or an overnight stay at an agriturismo in Montepulciano, I’m not thinking about the consequences of shutting down my research lab or how I will homeschool my children for the next three months. I’m trading the sorrow and struggle of today for the excitement and certainty of yesterday. But it only works for a little while, I can’t stay in my lovely little flat near the Ponte Vecchio forever.  

And a part of me, despite how difficult the times we’re going through now are, doesn’t want to be in the past. I’d miss all the good times, too – my husband’s hugs after a really long day, my children’s hands in mine as we face what lies ahead. I’d miss the joy of bedtime stories, quiet walks, and the everyday chaos of family. Living in today means embracing the joy and sorrow, the beauty and pain that go hand in hand.

I write to escape, even just for a little while. I write about a time and place where I could hear the church bells of Santa Maria Novella from my kitchen window and watch the sunset over the Arno river. And then I close my computer and come back to the life I chose, to the easy and the hard moments of the life we’re given.