My left eye is twitching, a new phenomenon. The welts that appeared on my neck in Rome are finally fading. (They didn't even have the guts to look like vampire bites. Damn it.) I'm still coughing my head off and look forward to another combo of cough medicine and antihistimine tonight to help me sleep.

And yet...

I look at the tiny rock, the bit of travertine sitting on my desk that I happened to pick up in the Forum in Rome, and I am instantly transported back there.

Where the light, when you can see it, is incredible. Where the sea you fly over to land in Rome is the Mediteranean, and the mountains you fly over when you leave Rome to go to the States are the Alps. That place of frantic motorbikes and narrow streets, stiletto heels and a helmet. Where the house wine is the best, and the best isn't on the menu and you can't afford it anyway.

Where the people smile and help out as you mangle their language, pleased that you've made the effort.

Rome. I believe I'm homesick.
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My youngest son has decided he wants to be a chemist. Like, where did that come from?

My eldest has brought up his English grade from a D- to a B-. Again, my reaction is, huh?

They are growing up so fast. As much as I want to cling to that, I know what I had in Rome - and I do want that, on a steady basis. I just have to balance the joy with having them here with the joy of having them move on to their own lives.

Wow. It really is a constant letting go. That part doesn't just happen overnight, and I keep forgetting that.

Gee. There's wisdom in there somewhere, if I can remember it instead of relearning it, over and over again.