what I’d wanted to say

Here is one of the many problems with knowing just enough language to communicate in a foreign country: you can say it, but you can’t mean it. At least, not the way you want to.

Like when you’re trying to talk about your sisters. They’re amazing, you say. My best friends. But that’s not right—what you meant was

At night we stay up late talking, and laughing until we can’t breathe. When we were little, that would get us into trouble, especially past midnight. Now, we can't stop no matter the consequences. Everything that ever happens to me, I save to tell them. The good, the bad, the just plain ridiculous--I am storing it all up for the minute we're together again. But, being so far apart, I have a strange outsider's perspective; we’re growing up, and it’s bitter and sweet all at once. I’m beginning to see what we’re becoming, the women (oh! That word alone!) we will be—which seems ridiculous, but true. And what exciting futures! Full of promise, and joy, and a sure knowledge that we will always, always have each other. Which, really, is all I ever wanted. If I had no one else but them, it would still be okay. They are the light and the love I most look forward to.

Or when you want to explain how incredible your roommate is. We started a club! you exclaim. It’s about Life. And she’s from Oregon. Good, but not exactly

It’s unreal! We were so lucky, being thrown together under this eight-hundred year old roof, with the tap-dancing pigeons and a room with three walls. She makes me smile too much and laugh too hard; she reminds me of the great good in the world even while indulging my rants and raves. Today she shortened "situation" to "situatch." And danced along the computer corridor to her own little song. And almost ran away from school. Sometimes, I feel infinitely too uncool to be with her, this film major extraordinaire with her easy wit and lively curiosity. Oh, and our club is going to take this world by storm.

Or sometimes it’s as simple as retelling your morning’s adventures. Not bad, you shrug. Just another day. When really

When I sleep, I dream they’re here, with me. 1920 is just off Via dei Rossi, mia scuola only minutes from Emigration Market. When I wake up, I’m confused, frustrated. My duvet should be white, not peach. My cat grey, not ginger. At breakfast, I spoon out the Miel Pops while remembering pumpkin granola. At school, we plan for home. “We’ll do it then!” we shout, smiling, hoping. A million ideas, none fit for here. It is always there, then, when. I am in a weird place, missing old life and looking forward to new life and not living my present life very well at all*. Which means that I'm more frustrated with myself than anything.

I mean, if I could say all that, then it would be time to go home, anyway.

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*(And I most definitely just stole a line from an Elder M letter.)