There was something about them. Something about the air around them and it was a little brighter perhaps and the scent of flowers and the warmth of summer. And it was always so when he saw them. That’s what Lipari thought. Today he sat close enough he could touch them, close enough he could hear their gentle speech and the soft and whispered good words and he breathed in deep.
Today their were four monks on the Via dei Calzaiuoli and all of them dressed in sunshine and they laughed and it was like music or song and Lipari wanted to touch their robes for something like luck, just as tourists visiting the city touch the nose of the bronze Porcellino on the Mercato Nuovo and by which rubbing they hope for fortune to smile on them.
And sitting so close, Lipari suddenly felt all pain leave him and his anger lost its teeth and all his sense of the unfairness of things went, too. A calm overcame him then and the fingers of his fists unfolded, and his shoulders lost their tightness and dropped, and he felt as light as nothing, as light as thought. He closed his eyes, like sleeping or dreaming, and the sound of the monks talking was in his head, their words like prayers, and those prayer words were all that there was, that and the sun on his face like a blessing; and it could all end now, he thought, all of it, and there was a peace in his thinking then.
But they moved away from him and further along the street and the sun dipped behind a cloud and Lipari snatched for air, as one who has held his breath too long or one who surfaces from a time under water and breathes at last. He got to his unsteady feet and tugged the strap of his shoulder bag to shift the weight, and he turned to follow the four monks, as though he wanted to be one of them, to have what they had to help him through.
He stumbled a little and the thoughts in his head were, for a moment, thick and clouded and he breifly lost his bearings. The monks were further from him and lost in the crowds of shoppers and tourists. Then the pain in Lipari returned and he winced as though a blade was between his ribs and he swore and he clutched at his chest.
He knew the days that were left to him were few and he knew that if he did not let go of the bitter that he felt and his thoughts all crooked and black as the fingers of witches and every spoken word spat and cursing – if he did not let all of that go, then the last days would be hard. So, Lipari steadied himself and he gathered his strength and he found a way to go. He looked for sunshine on the Via dei Calzaiuoli and the orange of their robes for he knew where they were the air held a special peace that would infect him and make him not well, but better.
July 5, 2013: He longed to be one of them.
There was something about them. Something about the air around them and it was a little brighter perhaps and the scent of flowers and the warmth of summer. And it was always so when he saw them. That’s what Lipari thought. Today he sat close enough he could touch them, close enough he could hear their gentle speech and the soft and whispered good words and he breathed in deep.
Today their were four monks on the Via dei Calzaiuoli and all of them dressed in sunshine and they laughed and it was like music or song and Lipari wanted to touch their robes for something like luck, just as tourists visiting the city touch the nose of the bronze Porcellino on the Mercato Nuovo and by which rubbing they hope for fortune to smile on them.
And sitting so close, Lipari suddenly felt all pain leave him and his anger lost its teeth and all his sense of the unfairness of things went, too. A calm overcame him then and the fingers of his fists unfolded, and his shoulders lost their tightness and dropped, and he felt as light as nothing, as light as thought. He closed his eyes, like sleeping or dreaming, and the sound of the monks talking was in his head, their words like prayers, and those prayer words were all that there was, that and the sun on his face like a blessing; and it could all end now, he thought, all of it, and there was a peace in his thinking then.
But they moved away from him and further along the street and the sun dipped behind a cloud and Lipari snatched for air, as one who has held his breath too long or one who surfaces from a time under water and breathes at last. He got to his unsteady feet and tugged the strap of his shoulder bag to shift the weight, and he turned to follow the four monks, as though he wanted to be one of them, to have what they had to help him through.
He stumbled a little and the thoughts in his head were, for a moment, thick and clouded and he breifly lost his bearings. The monks were further from him and lost in the crowds of shoppers and tourists. Then the pain in Lipari returned and he winced as though a blade was between his ribs and he swore and he clutched at his chest.
He knew the days that were left to him were few and he knew that if he did not let go of the bitter that he felt and his thoughts all crooked and black as the fingers of witches and every spoken word spat and cursing – if he did not let all of that go, then the last days would be hard. So, Lipari steadied himself and he gathered his strength and he found a way to go. He looked for sunshine on the Via dei Calzaiuoli and the orange of their robes for he knew where they were the air held a special peace that would infect him and make him not well, but better.