Travel: Santa Croce

July 28th / Dusk

I am sitting in Santa Croce's piazza, my favorite church, my favorite time of day. I am drinking a coke and eating french fries and vegetarian falafel, without the falafel, because they were out of them again. A man is playing classical guitar a few benches down from me.

Before you leave someone, time is palpable. It rushes past your ears, a soft scream barely discernible above the whimpers of your goodbyes. But before you begin the, "this is the last time we will ever..." speech, before that, before you start thinking about letting go, you feel the immense power of holding on. You feel every drop of wind and every decibel of laughter. You notice every light that turns on, beacons for nightfall to come home. You notice the shadows of the day falling across your page, like the world is ready to close its book.

It feels the same way with this place, like a friend I've come to know.

People are sitting still on the benches, bathing their faces in the evening wind like a cleansing syrup. New shapes and colors stretch across the pavement, and families walk by slowly, shuffling their feet past the church that, unlike me, has seen this all a thousand times before.

No one wants to let go. And the shadows on the page become darker. The white marble on the columns begin to glisten brightly and the yellow facades on the old palace homes turn to gold. The sky unwraps itself and releases a sigh that shifts the light from gray to blue. This is the tender moment of transition between night and day. And in a breath, it is over.

There's a cue in the light that is so subtle, few but those sitting quietly on the benches would notice. The shift in the light has given us permission to transform and like a film strip suddenly catching on to its reel, the pace of the evening finds new momentum. Hopeful travelers come out of their sun-drenched slumber, ready to play on the now electrified streets. They show off their darkened arms in strapless dress, their proudest accomplishment of the day. A photograph of the sun on their skin.

The cigarettes are lit, embers burning like the street lights. The circles of friends are getting bigger, the laughter louder. The Italian rolls off their tongues like the gelato down my fingers.

The pigeons are gone so the children have nothing left to chase but each other. And so they do, shrieking with each turn they make around the big square. Space like they've never encountered. Uncluttered with toys and rules and instructions, they dance, patting against the stone with their sandals like freed creatures finally in their natural habitat. Round and around they run, until their parents, walking slowly ahead, hand in hand for the first time in years, call out to them. The children, also for the first time in years, don't need to be called twice. They respond to their names, beautifully echoed against the cupboard windows like seagulls returning to their flock, soaring over an ocean of cobblestone.