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6.1.20 On the first day in Florence, we are silent. Not fallen-into-sorrow silent, but immersed-in-ourselves silent, as if we had all summoned ourselves here to mourn, but now that we’d made it to the other side of the world, none of us knew how to connect anymore. My uncle is on his laptop, searching up places he can scatter the ashes on Google Earth. He suggests one morning at dawn, and nobody answers. My auntie complains about the lack of toilet paper in the apartment, and nobody answers. My older cousin Robin watches the tennis, and my younger cousin Dominique sits quietly in the corner with her knees pressed up against herself. It is all so strange. Cold ceramic tiles and crunching bread bags. 7.1.20 Aidan is on every street corner, inside every shoe shop, and at every terrace cafe, sitting in the sun with one leg crossed over the other, in his Italian leather jacket, smoking a cigarette. Tonight, my auntie will insist that we all eat our dinner outside. It is 1 degree celsius. I give Aidan an invisible smile. 8.1.20 The day they scatter the ashes, I find myself sitting in the same cafe as Annie Clark of St Vincent. I had decided it wasn’t my place to join the others - I come from a separate branch - and now I’m in the same cafe as Annie Clark. I’m pretty sure it’s her. She has one of those delivery boy hats on. 9.1.20 Duomo Inside the tower the light softly christens me and I let it fall 10.1.20 Back in Australia, a week before he ended his life, Aidan’s parents had set him up in a new apartment, not far from the hospital. “I hope this will be a good home for you,” his father had said. Aidan had replied with soft assurance, “Thank you, but I’m not going to be here for long. I’m going to Florence.” And where was Florence? He was very sick, both parents agreed at this point in the story. But the most beautiful part of this story is that in coming to Florence, they have honoured his sickness. Because inside of it there was a truth central to him and who he was. Florence was always a symbol. That night I dream I’m laying in bed, looking at the face of my lover, and I ask them what they think of me. They say, “I think you’re very sick.” Sick like he was. I say, “No, no, I’m definitely not very sick. I’m not actually sick at all.” 11.1.20 Imagine you are on a pebbled beach surrounded by eucalyptus trees. The air is still and the water is vast, smoothly stretched out in front of you. You want to take a step towards the water but some wild invisible force is stopping you. It is dragging you back to the car. family family family family I search for it I search for it I search for it I search for it I search for it I search for it I search for it I search for it I search for it. 12.1.20 Dominique and I sit by the Ponte Vecchio in the soft afternoon sunlight with our takeaway coffees, talking about trauma. Laughing about trauma. Aidan is laughing, too. It’s just the three of us, and everything is ok. 21.1.20 A week later, I have another dream: I'm talking to Aidan in Florence. It’s 1pm and he hasn’t eaten. His hands are shaking, he’s not well. I try to let him know I understand his anxiety by joking about my own (sometimes it is better to demonstrate). Of course, I do think it is odd that his family is off scattering his ashes while he is still very much alive and hanging out with me. Where did they get the ashes from, for example? But I reason: maybe all of time is happening at once. So he is both dead and not dead. Is that true, Aidan? And who’s to say we’re not really having a conversation in a dark alleyway beside the Arno? I tell him he should eat something.