Friday, March 15, 2013

try again in 21 minutes

Blue tears filled my eyes.
I'm not sure if tears are blue, but they've got to be a color--they can't be "clear." 
Translucence is a quality, not a color,
and it seems that everything that the naked eye can see must have a color.
And to the great chagrin of all who have ever wished to keep their distress a secret, tears are all too painfully visible to the naked eye.

I want to go home, I repeated to myself for the googol-eth time,
 that melancholy mantra that's become the eternal antiphon of my hora media.
But I wasn't sure anymore where home was.

I gave up Nutella for Lent.
A dubious choice.
But I gave up Nutella for Lent, and apart from my relapse in Paris, when I listened to the siren song of a street vendor's crepe stand, I've given up my love completely.
But in a moment of panic, I ordered a piccolo jar of Nutella in Italian.
I opened my schedule, and found the binding was falling apart on the inside,
water-damaged beyond repair.
Roman rain is not kind.
It is not patient.
It is a jealous beast that devours everything it encounters, leaving nothing in its path untouched.

I want to go home.
But I wasn't sure anymore where home was.
But it sure as hell wasn't in that rainstorm.

I think I went to mass in Polish, but I'm not sure.
It may have been Portuguese.
As the kindly sister to my right squeezed my hand and murmured "peace" in a language I did not understand, I had found a bit of home.

Outside, there was a clap of thunder.
The hundreds gathered under the dome of the Rock looked up, but seemed unconcerned.
They quickly turned their eyes downward again to listen to the sweet droning of the man speaking Latin and the radiance of the Bernini Gloria.
We are all safe and snug at home, so let the storm rage.

I wandered into the chapel, guarded vigilantly by men in suits, asking with a challenge in their voice: preghiere?
I knelt on the squeaky red cushion.
And I knew that I was home.
And I laughed, because I am a fool.

You little rascal, I thought.
I've developed a bad habit of winking at the monstrance, with a twinkle in my eye to match His own.
His thirst was not an imagination, but a word, I read.
I guess you are pretty thirsty, I negotiated.
You can keep my water bottle, then, I conceded.
For I would give you more than just a purple water bottle with the
four letters L, O, V, and E.

3 comments:

  1. Renée, thank you for always inspiring me with your poetic words and relatable stories. You have such a special gift, my darling. <3 Also, speaking of home, just think of the home that awaits you next year! Love you! :)

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  2. Replace Rome with Florence and this exact same thing happened to me at the Duomo last week. FRIEND we need to be in each other's presence right now, please? Kthx. (Muffins, you're also invited. Conway Hall. ok.)

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  3. Love you girls so much. Can't wait to see you BOTH soon! xoxo

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