Under the Sky
What’s under the sky, Eva, is the roof, and under the roof, the ceiling. At home, you stare at the ceiling fan for what seems like hours. I make tea or kiss your belly or cross out words I no longer want or put your toes to your nose, and still you stare at the fan, smiling, laughing, at me, the fan, me again. Yesterday, here in Rome, after seeing the bones of lions and boars excavated from the coliseum; after roaming the Forum; after visiting Ostia Antica and eating fresh pasta and drinking a bit of local wine from a tiny glass; after walking the wide marble floors of St. Peter’s, I took you from the carrier that you had snuggled in all day, and we stood in the Sistine Chapel. Above us, Michelangelo’s world, and I carried you in my arms as you stared up. Those are angels, I said, and, That’s God. See how he’s reaching his hand down to touch the man, and those are more angels. Under all that wild heavenly color, I wondered if you would ever find happiness in another ceiling again.