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Her Pantheon |
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written
by sunyuh / 10.04.2005 |
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Part 1: |
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Sometimes I imagine her behind the columns, hiding and sleeping amongst the tourist. I see her moving in the day time, holding stranger hands, dragging him through the crowds and towards the entrance. She is funny, and light. They talk until they fall asleep on the wooden chairs in front of the altar, heads tilted up towards the honey comb ceiling. Everyday, this is her home. She never carries any bags and remains as clean as one can be in the Roman sun.
Sometimes I catch the sentences. When they are folded and lost in the crowd. When the strangers disappear and it is night time. Sometimes she walks towards the fountain and drops them in. Each sentence aloud. And I wait for someone else to come along and take her back to the entrance. When no one comes, she becomes surrounded by pigeons and little children who want her to drink the water, hold her hair, follow her when she runs. She waits for them to find their parents; she waits for them to leave before asking me if I can buy her flowers. From the man standing in front of us. She wants a bouquet full for her arms, delivered in the shape of a pillow. I hesitate, and see him walking towards us. A stranger. And like the little children, I am dismissed and sent home. Away from her columns and the flowers she sleeps on. There was nothing I could buy, anyway.
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