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Exiting |
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written
by sunyuh / 10.02.2005 |
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Assignment |
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It’s never bright in the mornings. Except for the homeless couples, people, gently catching their sleep and waking up on these steps. I’m always memorizing their portraits from behind, the backs of their heads resting on the stones. It looks smaller from here, with sprinkles of gray. It’s never loud. These steps. But I only walk by when the sun is climbing and falling.
I return when it’s darker. The heat is passing. Every once in a while the same men walk by, and I will follow them. Dark brown robes, one gray string textured like folding straws swaying to a rhythm I could never collect for memory. I see one holding a newspaper and whistling. It looks like it’s for someone else, the way he flings, the it way it’s folded.
I am following him, but we are the only ones on the streets with a destination. We are surrounded by millers, the overdressed wanderers. He clears the streets with his brisk movements, his long strides. I follow. For once if I could be a thief, a pick pocketer, to be closer and have him not see, to take something but not feel the touch—but he disappears before me into a church I have never seen. It is small and empty. One that could never attract a tourist. This place is too hot for sitting, standing, thinking. Buonasera. The caretaker says softly, echoing it through. He only says it once because he thinks I’m with him and turns away. I am an amateur, walking and standing too close, but I wishing for him to turn around.
He lights a candle. I light a candle. Without the wanders I’m following and he’s thinking about the traces.
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