Things Lost Along the Way

How Tembi Locke’s memoir, a virtual map, and a long-lost road trip guided me back to my love

Jun 23, 2026

Penned Feb 8, 2025 by Penny Sue Denim

Sicily. Tembi Locke married a man from Sicily. Some years later, her Saro died of cancer, leaving Tembi behind with their 7-year-old daughter. Relatable.

At Christmas, my sister-in-law handed me Locke’s memoir, her book club’s recent crush, tearfully relaying how she’s heartbroken about what’s happened to us. My voice trembled, as I thanked her with slightly raised eyebrows as if to say, “We’ve got this much in common. . . We’re all bewildered at life’s apparent brutality. What is there, though, but surrender?”

Traversing the chapters, I dropped myself into Tembi’s shoes, partially in an attempt to relive our hours—Robben’s and mine —in Florence, Civita di Bagnoregio, Cinque Terre, and Sicily; partially because Saro’sgently relentless pursuit of Tembi takes me back to 2004 and the blue expanse of the ocean; and partially, I immersed myself into her story because it is my story. Once your worst nightmare befalls you, sanity’s distance from vicarious trauma no longer applies. Other readers may take it in with a mix of distance’s pity and fear’s superstition—bracing for that hijacking limbo between reading on and throwing out the book. “One wrong move,” threatens the hot breath at your ear and the cold slice of steel at your neck, “and you’ll regret it!” When you find yourself reading someone else’s story from behind the shield of your hand, you know you better be careful or you’ll invite the story to seep into your life. At that moment, you’re a spectator more than a participant, and that’s how it should be. That’s how you hope fate keeps it.

A weathered bronze statue of an angel in a cemetery. — Photo by Rainhard Wiesinger on Unsplash

But this time, I was a participant. So, I asked Siri to play Locke’s soundtrack, discovering new artists through Saro’s & Tembi’s ears. Tracing Google’s map of Florence to understand how far she rode her bike home at night. From my sofa, I visited Caffe dell’ Artista on Greenwich Avenue, ruffling through the swath of aspirational messages, confessions, and literary quotes left over time by patrons, trying to find the one she’d left that day they’d eloped: “I want to spend my life in love and companionship.” Not only could I not find the note, I couldn’t even find the café. Until Yelp told me the location was permanently closed. I read a review saying “Long live Caffe Dell’Artista. . . You were and will always be my favourite”. I’m tempted to leave the café its second posthumous 5-star review, admitting that I’d never been there, except through a paragraph in Tembi Locke's achingly beautiful book, From Scratch.1

Now, Locke lands on Sicily with her daughter and her husband’s ashes in tow. They travel by car to his birthplace. And so, with Google Maps at my service, I centre Palermo and the northern area of the island. It’s like the technology grants me the time machine Robben so frequently fantasized about. Lost boys, superheroes, and time machines were his kryptonite. Suddenly, Google implodes as I’m transported to a time just before its appearance.

I’m holding the brand-new Garmin Nuvi GPS2 gifted to me by my early-adopter spouse and I’m walking away from the pier. Now I’m in a Sicilian courtyard in the historic centre of Palermo, and suddenly Robben’s beside me. The first time since that day in August. And my daughter is also beside me—on the floor of our lounge, creating the Lego fox I bought her for her recent 8^th birthday and spontaneously composing a song that I imagine to be entitled, “We’re Going to Be Okay”.

Tears are stinging my eyes and that familiar strangler is at my throat.

Robben’s ordering for us, glancing where the menu says Pizza al Taglio, “Two slices of Margherita Pizza, one Cannoli, and a slice of Cassata, per favore.” We dine together, enjoying the sun and the bustle all around.

We’ve finished, and we’re meandering through the narrow cobblestone streets.

Once again, now, we’re standing at the façade of the Teatro Massimo di Palermo. I haven’t been there in probably two decades. I hadn’t even remembered the place existed.

“Mom, look! Bet you didn’t think this fox could move his legs!”

“Wow! He’s so cute!” I offer, jolted back to the reality where I’ll never again sit on a café terrace holding hands with Robben, saline coastal breeze tantalizing my senses and drawing me across the table for a salted caramel kiss.

A motorcycle parked on the side of a street — Photo by Valeria Kodra on Unsplash

Scanning the virtual map on my iPhone, I have a faint recollection of a road trip from Palermo. But where did we go? It would have been a low season day when there weren’t many kids onboard, allowing us to trade off a late day shift and extend our time in port. But I can’t remember. None of Google’s well indexed places look familiar. None of the images uploaded by reviewers, nor those presented by Street View, relinquish that I’ve been there before feeling. I would have asked Robben, “Do you remember taking thatday trip from Palermo? Do you remember the intimate beach right next to the large concrete platform? That’s all I can remember about that day.” And he would have remembered. But I can’t.

Cefalu, You Shine!

Penned Feb 9, 2025 by Penny Sue Denim

a woman sitting on the ground looking out at the water — Photo by Davide Cultrera on Unsplash

Ah, Cefalu.

Thank you, Tembi! On page 103, Locke notes that her brother-in-law, Cosimo, worked as a traffic cop in Cefalu. The moment I read the name, I remember that it had been a magical day in Sicily for Robben and I. A magical road trip to a small seaside city boasting a stunning cathedral flanked by a bare granite mountain and skirted by the glowing blue expanse of the sea.

Mountain, Mediterranean, and memories. Cefalu, you shine!

The lost road trip—at least one of them—has been found.

~ ps denim