Our voices fall in the cathedral, settle on the wooden floor rests before sliding up the bench and tugging, gently at our shoulders. I whisper: what's that smell? The answer: the vindictive scents of Roman Catholicism, like thick and aging paints, hidden dust, and bodies--crated and propped for display, one saint so old his face sinks like rusted bones, as if the river ran through him too long.
The sound of the children here does not remind me of laughter, full-bellied squeals. Rather, something violent: their mouths swell, produce voices that kick the sky, do not resonate or hang there but pop, puncture the ears and leave holes in your hearing. They run, and their voices pound beside them.
The bathroom: even with the door closed the light still hints color, the sea foam the tile floor is meant to mimic, an opposite as all the upper walls and ceiling glisten with the vibrancy of the color white. The sink, toilet, bidet all glitter in their, muted color--bowls of the blank. Even the small glass above the shower lets in the purity of a large, white cross. The only break from the glaring sterility is the artificial age provided by the window, a large wooden arch, bricked, lined close with dark, wooden shutters.
Railing forward, hill side, from a bird cage, we climb to the basilica. My foot heaves under the weight of my stress--behind me, a great unfolding: a crinkled spread of greenery followed by the clattered brown and orange rooftops of Gubbio. Directly below me a tree bursts wooden buds of pine cones, dotted haphazardly through its dark, deep branches. The sky, not so far now, rattles in its haze of gray.
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