St. Peter's

I entered St. Peter’s like a child.

A child, because I felt like I had just been born into history. A child, because my wonder lacked full understanding. A child, because I never wanted to leave. I fell into St. Peter’s the way that my eight-year-old self disappeared inside an art project: paint smudged fingers, paint in my hair, paint in my dreams.

I touched a tiny marble piece woven into an angel on the wall.  The piece disappeared, smooth and cool under my pointer finger. I was that tiny piece too, just a freckle, a glimmer placed in the rippling crowd of hundreds, all their own stories and colors.
 

I teetered up the Copula’s winding cliff side to see the view. Below, mosaic flushed in the wild marble sea that spilled roses, gold, and light; so much light resounded. 

I flew with my child’s arms and legs to its mountaintop. Rome rolled out below me in orange rooftops, misty water bridges, toy trains and cars. I suddenly had giant’s hands, hands that could pluck the rounded hedges from their lush gardens. The dark forests would be a simple pinprick to uproot.  The rocky splendor of Rome’s lost empire glowed like lighthouses at bay.

All threaded into the open blue sky, which surpassed even St. Peter’s splendor in its silent infinity.