ART WORK IN ROMA, 1995

Did you ever have a magical moment? One of those dots in time in your life you wish you could stay in it...forever.

                                                               The Trevi Fountain

                                                 

      

                               ART WORK IN ROMA, 1995
                 
                         

        I felt his kiss and then he left, a man on a mission. I watched my high-school History teacher

disappear among the crowd down the narrow Via. My prince. Not on a white horse but instead,

wearing snow-white K-Mart sneakers.

Somewhere from the past I heard my grandmother's voice.

     "Enjoy your husband, Mayi, for loneliness has the face of a stray dog."

     The voice of my father, the Cuban refugee, seemed to follow hers. "Make memories, Mayita.

Make memories. They can take things from you, but not your memories."

     I sat on the stone bench, feeling the cold penetrating through my clothes while contentment

kept me warm within. The sounds of fast spoken Italian rippled like the waters of the fountain

before me. Somewhere in the vicinity, an establishment baked bread, pane italiano, spreading its tease.

I immersed myself in all of it, the whole atmosphere that enveloped me. Mesmerized, I gazed at the

great monstrosity of art work, in front of me, The Trevi Fountain. I held my breath as the sun's rays

slipped back, withdrawing from the structure, like an actor on stage after his encore, before, the final

exit. So, I waited. Waited for the moment when dusk would lay its first kiss on the statutes and then,

the metamorphosis, when the lights that automatically come on at night, made their splash.

My thoughts wandered in different directions as I waited. I thought of my husband on his mission.

   "Where do you want to eat? It's our last night in Rome," he asked me.

   "How about some place, small and quaint. Where the Italians eat? Surprise me."

   Again the voice of my father surfaced. "Make memories," he said. Right after his doctor

informed us, "It's brain cancer."

   Memories, to keep like treasures, as art work, in the museum I held within, often visited on

rainy days. .

   Lights flashed and the Fountain sprung to its night life. I heard' the familiar squeak of

sneakers beside me and saw my husband's face aglow.

   ''You're going to like this place."

   I stood next to my husband as we took in the beauty of the Trevi Fountain together maybe for

the last time. We can't count on tomorrows.

   Nearby, I could hear an Italiano, playing his violin and singing Arrivederci Roma. My husband

took my hand and we walked along the throng, down the Via toward the place he had found. I

smiled as I searched the street ... no stray dogs that night. ~

             

               Of all the stories I have written, this is one of my 
                  favorite ones. Every time I read it I'm there.