CHRONICLE OF AN IDENTITY MIGRATION
Chiara Raucea, Italy
2 October 2023
“Remember, what goes around comes around, kid”
I am the Promised Land for the child that I was.
I am the most foreign country where I will always try to abide.
I keep wandering and wondering whether this is my time.
Here,
I stand:
with questioning thoughts bordering on the North
(what is trivial? what is worth?);
with trembling steps eager for novelty bordering on the South
(and sometimes I can hear my windy voice coming out from your mouth);
with a smooth palm to the East, and a rough one to the West
(one to work hard with my hands, one to love you and … rest).
I have not forbidden seas when I sail.
But I sink in saying goodbyes.
From one of my eyes,
rainfalls occur, from time to time.
Winters are cold:
they bring unfamiliar whispers, prejudices at first sight,
new places with no known faces at my side,
weekly weak days
and no lust to fight.
Winter days last less than winter nights.
My dry season is never predicted by forecasts
(but, luckily, it’s not made to last).
I work every day
on drawing
the moving line
between what-I-am and what-is-mine.
I walk on the threshold
between
you and me
because you
are the Promised Land
where I want to become a ‘we’.