untitled
Inside_man
When he was a child, his mother took him out of school, and brought him here on Wednesday afternoons. The limestone columns and monastic silence reminded her of home, she said, and when she sat on this bench and closed her eyes, she recalled the secrets her parents had kept for her, echoing down the long hallways of her family history, long ago and far away.
A full lifetime later, he still comes here every Wednesday, but he comes in the mornings. He plants himself on the same bench on the western wall, and waits for the southern light to spill into the courtyard. On gray days, the magnificent tumbled walls are tinged with pink, and the floor is inked a steel blue-gray. On days like this, a burnished gold threads with a perfect Tuscan red to weave a complicated tapestry of life. Here, under the pointed arches, the stone floor cool beneath the well-worn soles of his shoes, he takes time to remember.
Even now, this is the only place in the world where he can be alone without feeling lonely.
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