The Other Michelangelos

In elementary school, I remember learning about river rocks. The current beats and pulls against them, molding them smooth, almost soft when you hold them. Over hundreds of years, a meaningless rock becomes a geologist’s treasure.

Last summer, we went to Florence to see the David. I could tell you about how impressed I was, how I circled him amidst a suffocating crowd, sketched his many expressions, and read about the million tiny sensors that monitor his body for cracks.

But what I remember most now are the dim Michelangelos leading up to David’s throne. Never finished or given a second glance, they seemed there to fill space. I studied the frame of a head, the bridge of a nose, and eyes still blinking away sleep. Would you believe me if I told you they seemed more human?

Somehow, I thought of one summer afternoon heating up Rupert’s coffee. He got it from the food bank, I think. He liked his coffee hot but not too hot. He waited for me outside the back door, while I zapped it at thirty second intervals. Three times he sipped and handed it back.

He wore his standard plaid T-shirt, black jacket, and long, white beard. I remember his grey eyes most. Head ducked, they always darted away when I spoke. He didn't seem to care for women. Thirty or so years ago, our house offered to let him use our laundry room and shower. Sometimes he stood in that basement for five minutes, sometimes for two hours. I quickly learned: One, never put your hands in your pockets. He hates guns, even imaginary ones. Second, never wear red, because he also hates communists. Third, don’t take offense if he calls you an Anti-Christ Roman Legion. Rupert often sifted through our garbage bin, returning every broken mug, stained sweater, and milk carton we rejected.

I gave him the coffee. He took a sip, and suddenly his eyes lit up, met mine. I heard once that he used to be in college. A really good college. He used to be going places.

Maybe Rupert is just like those statues, like a river rock in a dry bed, brilliant underneath and just waiting to be found.

Aren't we all? Me in my limp ponytail, missing my boyfriend, working long hours at a campus job.

I’d like to think Michelangelo comes back at night, or maybe just a fanatic, to carve those stones.