Today, my American dream is to leave America. I am haunted by the recurring nauseating notion that people do not extend their care or empathy to one another when they vote. My heart breaks for my queer friends, my friends of color, my disabled friends, and American women.

       However, I am not here to grieve, demonize anyone, nor lose faith in my country’s ability to progress. Rather, I’d like to talk about where my heart lives instead of my body: Italy.

I rode the same metro every day I was in Paris—the pink 7 metro.

I watched as older couples got on and off with matching shoes, hand in hand, moving with a quiet, wordless coordination that spoke of years spent together. There was a soft elegance in the way they moved, a visible comfort in one another that somehow looked effortless yet took a lifetime to build.

18 months.

A lot can happen in 18 months, but at the same time, a lot cannot happen in 18 months.

18 months ago, my dad suffered an Anoxic Brain injury, and since then he has never been the same.