An Epic Mother-Son Reunion in Italy

From Electric Lit:

There you were on my ancient doorstep, late, or early, unannounced, 
 in the thick black coat I bought you for Christmas. Of course, 
 you were on your way, but when would you arrive? As always, 
  
 no phone. Me, no extra-key or place to hide it, only two days into 
 my teaching abroad, Florence sodden, dark, full of shadows 
 and confusion. But you convinced the smoking college students 
  
 on the cobblestone street—who knew me as professor mom—
 to let you through the first two doors, and then you were at mine, 
 a one, two knock. Bearded, cold, smiling. It was February, and you’d 
  
 landed at Heathrow, taken a bus to the City of London airport. 
 Then the flight and travel path went something like Frankfurt 
 to Macedonia. Macedonia! You huddled on a frozen hill in the coat 
  
 and in a down sleeping bag. Then to a rickety communist era train 
 to Thessaloniki and on to Athens. Next a port town I can’t remember, 
 maybe Patras, and a night ferry to Ancona and another train 
  
 to Bologna and back to Florence until you found my building 
 with directions jotted on a ragged scrap of ferry napkin. Long ago, 
 you and I were alone together in the small house, your father student 
  
 teaching in another town, coming home on weekends. It was you 
 and me, day after day, me too young to mother properly, me 
 in charge of you, already smarter with a wicked baby smile. 
  
 But there we were in the dark mornings, the slog of the day. 
 We went to every free Wednesday at the merry-go-round, every 
 park. You and me together in the nighttime with fevers. Here, 
  
 in Florence, in the medieval building, in the odd apartment, you 
 and me again, planning meals of roasted eggplant and 
 brocolo romanesco, walking to the store pulling the cart 

Link to the rest at Electric Lit