No one comes ‘round these darkened alleyways here in Rome anymore, it seems. That’s why it was strange to see a man clothed in a black jacket and jeans shuffle slowly down the hill, his patent leather shoes clicking softly against cobblestone bricks like he belonged there and only there. Like the image of him remains, whether you look away or look back. He’s like a ghost tied to a tragedy, and a permanent fixture woven into a real life tapestry.
Of course, maybe it isn’t so strange after all to watch him loiter there like a breathing stone statue. He doesn’t look friendly; just like the stone cathedral he turns to slouch in front of doesn’t really look all that warm and welcoming. Loneliness is their common muse.
He stands there, contemplative of whatever trash blows gently near his feet. His gaze lifts. Several heartbeats later, and the fog obfuscating his purpose for hanging around a forgotten old chapel when he could be off with the crowds momentarily fades, leaving clearer details as to why he’s there. That church is his only real companion besides his shadow and his scowl. And the desolate streets make it clear that the only real companion of the church is the man.
At least in a story like this. This is a story that describes a place with special meaning. But what kind of special place doesn’t have human fingerprints littered like invisible flower petals swirling against the scene?
The lone figure in the alleyway is part of the decoration, a contrivance in the artist’s needlepoint to give meaning to an otherwise blank canvas of cold concrete. And, because he’s never been the focal point of anyone’s fairy tale, walking alone like a wolf without a pack, he makes the cut to be woven into this description of a sad church reflecting an even sadder man.
The slow shuffling of his patent leather shoes resumes as he takes a painful step that drudges against the ground toward the stairs of the ecclesiastical edifice, his jilted lover. It’s the only sound playing against the twinkling breeze, a stark musical note in contrast to the sight. Without warning, he turns his gaze upwards again, and for a moment to anyone watching he gives away the condition of his heavy heart, his eyes glistening like rain splattered puddles of blue.
The gray structure stares back somberly, its priestly poetry reflecting benedictions and grace against his wounds, offering wearily a choice to be lifted up. The sounds of feet scuffles stop as his gaze shifts to take in the building before him. He closes his eyes as if to soak in unseeing the message sluggishly starting to glow from gloomy gothic windows.
His eyes open. There is beauty in their mutual despair, and a growing comfortableness reflected in the barely perceptible curl of his upper lip. Is the unsaid problem in this scene a lack of purpose for both of them? And, having found one another, is purpose restored?
What a diamond in the rough this pious place of religious orientation is, shoved in between the street corners and vacant once busy stores. The chipped gray corners and walls don’t speak of a building that’s lacking in maintenance, but rather a place that has weathered too many storms and seen too many things only to be left disappointed and without hope. Will the future ever acknowledge that this spiritual place has something to offer that is more than decoration, but rather a promise to the desperate souls that walk on by it unseeing. Maybe it’s watched enough wayward fathers with flashes on their selfie-sticked phones and their head in the clouds, no children in tow.
Maybe this father, if cradled in its pew, would be different. The door seemingly creaks, as the man finally makes his way up the church front stairs to push the gateway wide for his entry.
Like a woman regaining her composure, soft candlelight dapples the altar in greeting. But all is not yet well as surprising coldness wafts through the antique room.
And, the unexpected cold clearly bites at the man’s skin, making him tuck his chin further into his clothes. It’s a draft, and the wind that whistles softly though the old rafters whines as if embarrassed.
Embarrassment leads to excuses on the part of the once filled to capacity cathedral. The door that leads inside isn’t sealed all that well. Or, maybe, it’s just the lack of warm bodies in pews that used to be full. Still, the man appears to rather put up with cold inside than outside the church’s doors in silent exclusion. He makes his way to take a seat.
This is hardly a Vatican, caught as it is between smallish vandalism here and there and chipped paint. The floors are step-worn, with well-worn pews standing vacant in neat, ordered lines. Underneath them lies a motley mixture of large earth-toned stones, a marbled swirl of whites, grays, and less common streaks of brown. Against the walls hang priceless works of art dangling over final resting places of faceless and de facto nameless noblemen or priests.
Messianic stories written with plaster and interpretation line the walls, dust that hangs there less apparent than a second ago. The colors and style of the Renaissance bring to life holy words bound by ink inside pages. No one could help but admire the art. But, in truth, the statues are worse for wear despite their priceless connection to history. Mary, immortalized in a state of mourning, the most.
And despite all of that, none of it matters. The church once more has a parishioner, and its parishioner appears to kneel having found a modicum of possible peace.
Silently, a priest pads to the narthex of the church to ring bells signaling mass is about to begin. Here he stands like the Pope tending to his roaring masses that suddenly number three as two nuns take their place in distant pews.
A quiet communion takes place between man and God’s house. Prayerful hands reach for peaceful celebration, and imperceptible fingers reach back to grip at a mortal’s heart strings, warming there. All is not for naught. God is here.
