Let Them Eat Cake

“Martha!” Mom called from the hallway, “I’ll be back soon!”

“Okay, bye!” Martha listened to the lock click on the door and the car drive away.

Half an hour later Martha was hungry and ambled to the kitchen hoping to find something to munch. A bowl of fruit lay on the table. Martha looked at it and winced. She didn’t much like fruit, it was too… fruity. Martha preferred not to eat fruit because it was boring, and because it was always available.

The bowl had oranges (too acid), apples (meh), pears (too mushy) and raspberries (way too tart).

Martha opened the fridge. A big cake filled most of the rack. Martha licked her lips; it was a lava cake, and she knew what that meant: chocolate, with chocolate filling and oozing chocolate! A post-it stuck to the top of the plastic cover read: “DO NOT EAT THIS, MARTHA, I MEAN IT!”

Martha sighed. She was aware she’d gained weight and kids at school called her fatty now. I’m not fat, she kept telling herself, and it was true, Joan Perkins was much fatter—at least a size L—but it was small comfort.

Martha set the cake next to the fruit-bowl; she lifted the cover and smelled it, the delicious scent of chocolate caressed her nostrils. She looked at the bowl of fruit and the apples and oranges seemed to wilt right before her eyes. It looked sad compared to the decadent cake in front of her. The catch: no way she could take a slice with no one noticing.

Martha longed for the cake and wondered at its existence. Mom always tried to eat healthy, so why buy it? She put her hands on her waist, pensive. She could now squeeze the tender little rolls that, of late, spilled over the waistband of her pants, which, regardless of style or material, fit tighter too. Martha gazed down at herself, she was no longer a member of the itty bitty titty committee and her bra was uncomfortable.

Martha put the cake back in the fridge and grabbed an apple. She bit into it, its cool sweetness pouring over her tongue, but Martha only noticed it was mealy. Martha sighed and returned to her room, her downtrodden footsteps sounding over the empty house.

Going from a size extra-small to a size small isn’t so bad, she told herself. Yet she was always hungry now. What was happening? Mom said it was hormones, and she should accept herself as she is. But her body was changing too fast for her liking.

Martha finished her yucky apple and plunked on her bed. Moments later she was fast asleep.

She dreamt of the cake. Its chocolaty goodness bursting in her mouth, the syrup oozing down her throat. Then, the cake turned to dirt and Heather Carmichael held Martha’s head while pushing muck in her mouth.

“Eat it, Fatso!” Heather yelled as Martha struggled.

She tried to push Heather away, but her arms were spaghetti-like and weak. Heather stuffed a big ball of mud into Martha’s mouth and it turned into an apple. Martha was on a spit, hands and feet tied in front while Heather and her gang of stick-figure mean girls danced and whooped around in leopard-skin bras and skirts.

“Stuff the pig!” They yelled. 

Martha tried to scream but only muffled sounds emerged. The surrounding fire closed in and she felt herself suffocating. She gasped and the sudden intake of breath brought her back to her bedroom.

Damn! She thought, I need to lose weight.

She resolved to eat healthy and to deny herself that delicious cake in the fridge. She wouldn’t have a bite. Maybe it wasn’t for them, maybe it was for Mom’s work, someone was always having a birthday at her office.

That’s it, Martha thought, no more cake, only fruit from now on.

She rolled out of bed and shuffled downstairs, intending to eat an orange.

“Surprise!” Mom yelled, “Look who’s here!”

Her favorite cousin Lizzy sat at the kitchen island in front of the cake Mom was about to slice.

Martha hugged Lizzy and noticed that she wasn’t as bony. She gazed into Lizzy’s face and noticed her cheeks were fuller.

“It’s okay, there’s no shame in going from a size five to a seven, as long as we don’t overdo it. Aunt here was telling me how taller you are, it’s so true! My mom says it’s part of growing up, but being careful doesn’t mean we can’t have our cake and eat it too! Well, sometimes.” Lizzy winked.

“I say we enjoy this delicious lava cake and go buy you beautiful girls new clothes that fit your fabulous bodies!” Mom set out three slices of decadence.

Martha smiled and reflected on how fruit wasn’t so bland, but today, it could wait. One slice of lava cake wouldn’t turn Martha into a heifer, and Lizzy’s presence would help her turn a deaf ear to Heather’s bullying…

Bah, let Heather Carmichael eat cake.

 

One Good Man

Ronnie loved to admire the paintings, images and stained-glass windows that decorated the nave, the altar, and the aisles at church. His grandmother would take him every Sunday and instead of paying attention to the priest or the liturgy, Ronnie’s eyes would wander over every saint and every niche. The homily often went over his head, and as long as Ronnie sat still and quiet, Grandma didn’t much care if he listened. His appreciation of art pleased her.

Ronnie’s favorite stained-glass window depicted Saint George and the Dragon and Grandma always sat across it so that Ronnie could enjoy it. They had once sat beneath it, but Ronnie later told her it was too difficult to look at from that spot. On sunny days, the light shone through that window in a burst of color: green dragon, gray armor, white horse, red blood, blue sky; the colors tickled Ronnie’s eyes and drew his mind to them. On those Sundays Ronnie would daydream, imagining he was the great knight fighting the dragon.

“You know the dragon represents The Devil, right?” Grandma said when Mass concluded.

“Yes,”  Ronnie said.

“Have you ever heard someone say ‘the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men should do nothing’?”

Ronnie shook his head.

“Well, I can’t remember who said it, and I think people have misquoted it many times anyway, but when I see that window of Saint George, I remember that quote. I think it’s what the story means. It was only necessary was for one good man to slay the evil dragon. Don’t forget that Ronnie, I’ve always thought there’s a Saint George in all of us, and we all have the strength and the will to fight evil, we just need to look inside ourselves.”

Ronnie let the words sink in and nodded.

The next day, during recess, Ronnie heard a commotion coming from the swings. Freddy Kruger, the school bully was holding Marty Martens by the shirt collar. Marty was meek, chubby and wore thick glasses that made him look bug-eyed. Freddy raised his fist and Marty fell down with a thud.

Ronnie remembered Grandma’s words and the image of the stained-glass window flashed in his mind. Freddy’s green shirt reminded him of dragon scales and his own dark gray Batman sweatshirt felt like armor. He pulled on the hood with the bat ears; it sat low on his forehead, like a cowl. 

Ronnie ran to the swings and pushed Freddy catching him by surprise so he didn’t have time to put his hands out. Freddy looked up from the ground with a bleeding lip.

“Leave him alone!” Ronnie yelled. The sun was behind him and all Freddy Kruger could see was the Batman silhouette.

Freddy hated Batman and thought DC Comics were dumb.

“Make me!” Freddy stood up in a flash and hit Ronnie.

Ronnie, dazed and scared, he would not stand down. Freddy sometimes bullied him too. If he wasn’t going after Marty, he bullied Sarah or Mike or Ronnie, and Ronnie was fed up.

“Good people only have to do something,” he thought. He stood up and wiped the blood from his nose.

“You wanna hit me again, you go ahead!” He stared Freddy down, “I’m not scared of you!”

A crowd of kids had gathered.

“Yeah, and if you hit him again, you’ll deal with me!” Mike stepped next to Ronnie.

“And me!” Marty’s timid voice rang out loud and clear over the schoolyard for the first time. He too stood by Ronnie, defiant.

“Me too!” Sarah shouted.

One by one kids huddled around Ronnie, Mike, Marty, and Sarah. They faced Freddy Kruger, the school bully. Freddy looked from one scowl to another, turned on his heel and ran towards the building.

At the door he paused, turned to the crowd and yelled, “I’ll get you for this! You’ll see!”

Ronnie snickered, “That’s what they all say!”

Everyone laughed and resumed their recess play until the bell rang.

Miss Georgios, the third grade teacher and recess monitor, stood cross-armed watching over the schoolyard and smiled to herself. She too was sick of Freddy Kruger’s bullying — every day she reprimanded and scolded him — but there was only so much she could do. Freddy’s parents weren’t affable and they’d make a big stink once they found out Ronnie pushed their “precious angel”, but Miss Georgios would defend Ronnie.

 

Stagnation

Natalie looked out from the small and rectangular window that sat just below the ceiling and only afforded her a view of the sky. Across there was a bigger window with three bars running down it, which she detested because, despite the bars, she could behold life outside while she remained imprisoned. Squirrels often peeked in the big window as did foxes and raccoons. It afforded her an almost unobstructed view of the world and reminded her she no longer played a part in it.

Through the small window she watched the birds fly and the clouds drift. The sun shone through in the mornings and it warmed her face. The moon’s silver rays glimmered at night and lit the darkened room. Prison to her right, freedom to her left and Natalie in the middle.

The wind rustled the leaves outside the big window that evoked her prison and Natalie did her best not look through it, but her neck turned and she looked at the green fields and the trees that surrounded her house. Tears rolled down her cheek. How long had it been since she’d climbed those trees? Sat on the grass?

“Forever,” she whispered and shut her eyes.

She dreamt of Aramis, her big beautiful horse, running through the fields, her hair trailing behind her, not a sound in the world but his hoofbeats and the howls of the wind as they sped through it. Now, Aramis was gone, as shattered as her life. 

When Natalie woke up twilight surrounded her and the first stars peeked in through the small window, her freedom window. She was hungry and thirsty and hoped her father would not be long.

“Today is market day,” she said to the walls, “I hope all went well. Today we’ll have bread and beer for dinner.”

She heard noises and Natalie expected her bedroom door to open at any moment. Footsteps on the wooden floor approached. The click of the latch and the door swung open. Between her blanketed feet Natalie discerned her father’s figure appear through the threshold.

He smiled, illuminated by twilight. It was a sad smile. Natalie remembered happy days when things had been better, Aramis had been with them, and she could still ride him.

Father gazed into Natalie’s eyes and his face fell; through one eye she glimpsed the past, with the other the present, and resentment shown through both. Perhaps it would have been better if he hadn’t found her in time; better if she’d gone with her beloved Aramis.

“How was your day, Father,” Natalie smiled at him, following as he sat beside her and lit the oil lamp on the bedside table, “are there any news?”

He was old now, working beyond his years. That stormy day had intertwined their fates far more than she could have imagined, it had joined them so she would live only as long as he did. He took her hand and held it in his for a moment, then bent and kissed her forehead. She watched him pat her hand and set it beside her. He covered her with Mother’s quilt and adjusted her pillows while Natalie followed every movement with her wistful eyes.

“Mrs. Winston has a new baby, and Gerald lost a lamb when it wandered into the river and the current took it.”

“Oh no!”

“Yes,” he unwrapped a loaf of bread, “John baked this for you. Said he and Emily might drop in tomorrow if the weather allows.”

He broke off a piece and held it up to Natalie’s lips. He contemplated in silence while she chewed.

Natalie was not the only one stagnate in nostalgia. Five years ago he’d found her at the bottom of that ravine. Aramis’s frightened eyes as he breathed his last burned forever in his memory. For five years they’d lived a life in suspended animation, Natalie imprisoned in this room, held captive in a body that would never move again.

Faire

It was Sandra’s first time at a Renaissance Faire and she was both amazed and aghast at her surroundings. Amazed at the setting, the costumes, the activities, the food. It seemed she’d stepped through time. There were ax-throwing booths, archery contests and many medieval sports and activities. People in Renaissance garb sold their wares from booths made of cloth tents. It’s all so Arthurian, she thought. But she was aghast at the time and money people spent on their costumes, not just the vendors—after all, it was their job—but the guests too. There were princesses, minstrels, bards, jesters, and yeomen; fantasy themes were also abundant and people dressed as fawns, wizards and even elves—the Tolkien kind. The costumes fascinated her; they were top-notch and made of the best materials, not the homemade sheet-with-eyeholes type she’d worn on Halloween.

“Gosh,” Sandra turned to Kate, “did you ever imagine this?”

“No, I feel like I’ve stepped into Geekdom, but this is awesome!”

“I don’t know whether I should be amused or appalled. It’s supposed to be a Renaissance Faire, and everything’s like from the Middle Ages!”

Kate threw her head back and laughed. They’d been best friends since Kindergarten and had always wondered what these Faires were like. For the first time they’d attended one, and it didn’t disappoint.

They browsed from tent to tent and admired the fantasy-themed jewelry and the medieval-style pottery and crafts. The weapons vendor’s wares were plastic, but some weapons locked in a glass curio cabinet looked real.
The food dismayed though, the vendors sold pretzels, fries, corn dogs and all matter of American fast food. Sandra had expected something more old world and had been rather excited at the prospect of tasting Renaissance-style fare.

“Maybe Shakespeare ate burgers and fries,” joked Kate, taking a bite out of a salted pretzel.

“Well, you can have a turkey leg,” Sandra giggled, “they look right out of Ye Olde England.”

“I don’t think it would fit in my mouth!” Kate laughed as a large blacksmith passed by eating a turkey leg so big the man’s face looked small.

They sat down at one of the large wooden picnic benches and enjoyed their snacks. Sandra observed the people around them and Kate made witty comments.

* * *

Rob straightened his belt and remembered Julia. He had gotten into this mess because of her. He’d never considered himself a geek, but after meeting Julia… She had slowly changed him into a person he hardly recognized, not that he hated it, in many ways, he liked himself better. She had pushed him to try out new things, visit museums, go to concerts, poetry readings and whatnot, but when they’d sampled medieval sports, Rob, always the jock, had found his talent and passion. Julia had bolted soon after even though it had been her idea. It was ironic that she’d left him for a gym trainer, someone who wasn’t such a geek, she’d said. 

Rob shook himself from his reverie and got ready. This was his first Faire appearance and he trusted he would impress everyone. It had surprised him that these sports came natural to him, no one could ride like him, handle the lance like him or wield the sword like him. In the short time he’d taken up the pastime people in the circuit had even called him Lancelot.

“It’s just a game,” he muttered to himself, though he knew this was his chance to prove himself. But to whom? The absent Julia who preferred to look at that pea-brained muscle-man do squats?

Rob flexed his own muscles. He’d always been an athlete, and at least through Julia he’d learned he wasn’t pea-brained. Now it was time to prove that brains and brawn aren’t incompatible.

Rob took a deep breath and stepped out into the sunlight.

* * *

Trumpets sounded all over the campground-turned-Faire.

“Hear ye, hear ye!” A skinny youth dressed in puffy knee-length pants and tights addressed the crowd, “The tourney shall begin!”

Sandra and Kate rushed to a fenced-in field where the players were getting ready. There were horses and knights and banners! It was to be a joust! They laughed and giggled at the sight.

Kate snickered, “Can you believe this?”

“This is so awesome!” Sandra replied.

Just then, one knight caught her eye. He dressed in medieval armor, but had not put on his helmet. He was tall and muscular, with black hair and neat, trimmed beard. His posture showed confidence. He was talking to a man dressed like a squire. Sandra saw he was quite handsome and elbowed Kate.

“Oh hello,” Kate murmured when she followed Sandra’s gaze.

The knight turned in their direction and their eyes met. Sandra liked his bright blue eyes and fine nose, her knees weakened and her stomach fluttered; bashful, she smiled and the knight turned bright red.

“Ooh-la-la,” Kate teased and they giggled like little girls.

* * *

Rob and Jerry, his squire, readied the horse; good ole Gawain (yes, like the Knight of the Round Table) was strong and reliable. They could count on him not to spook and to stay the course; he was the perfect jousting horse.

Rob’s mind was all on the tourney. He’d learned long ago not to heed the crowd before a competition. His mind must be clear and his eyes on the prize, but the wind carried the sound of women’s laughter and he turned. Watching him were the most beautiful green eyes he’d ever seen. Julia’s light brown did not compare. These eyes were piercing emerald and, despite himself, Rob blushed right up to the tip of his ears. His heart skipped in a way it hadn’t since his adolescence; not even Julia’s classical beauty had provoked such a reaction. The face that framed those eyes was exotic, open and friendly. And the smile! Oh that smile promised a thousand nights of… well, everything. Love, companionship, sensuality, comfort, everything irradiated from that smile. Rob didn’t want to turn away.

The tourney began. A lot of fanfare, the crier gave his spiel and the audience oohed and aahed when the horses cantered. Sandra noted the handsome knight carried the blue and white banner.

The archery contest came first, then the buffoons and jugglers.

Rob kept his composure through the opening activities, but he found it hard not to glance in the woman’s direction. For the first time he understood what it meant for the knights of old to vie for the damsel’s heart. He wanted to win this so much more now that those eyes had captivated him. He knew this was his chance to elevate himself to her and be more than just the nerd in the cheesy armor. He wanted to be Lancelot.

It was time for the joust.

Sandra watched the handsome knight mount his horse; the squire handed him the lance. Rob couldn’t help sneaking a peek at the beautiful woman following him intently from the crowd. The opposing knight with the red banner made himself ready at the other end of the list.

  Off they went! They galloped towards each other and as Rob passed by, Sandra yelled, “Go, blue and white!”

The handsome knight heard her and did a double-take (Kate later called it rubbernecking). He was looking in Sandra’s direction as the red knight’s masterful blow struck Rob’s shield and threw him off his mount. Sandra gasped and covered her mouth while the handsome knight remained motionless on the ground. That was the end of that. He’d been the knight favored to win but one flash of emerald had turned the tables.

Winded and embarrassed, Rob’s his pride shattered into a million pieces. How would he ever look into those eyes again?

Squire Jerry helped Rob to his feet. Abashed and eyes fixed on the ground, Rob limped to his tent; Gawain snorted and, head held high, trotted beside him.

Rob plunked himself down on the wooden chair in the safety of his tent. Jerry mumbled words of encouragement; this was his first tourney, and Sir James was an excellent opponent, he shouldn’t be so downtrodden. Rob sneered and said nothing. Those bright green eyes had a name, and after this spectacle, he was certain he’d never know it. He covered his face with his hands.

Rob was unaware that Sandra and Kate huddled and giggled by the tent with the blue and white banner, waiting for the handsome knight to emerge.

 

La Pietà

La Pietà is a powerful image, thought Maria. She gazed at the sculpture and a knot formed in her throat. It occurred to her that the woman in marble who held her dead son was her namesake.

She wiped a small tear from her eye and turned away. She could not behold such an image for long.

Maria walked out of St. Peter’s Basilica and leaned against the pillar, her face in her hand. All around her was a hustle and a bustle of tourists, cameras, and languages, so many languages. She thought this might be the Tower of Babel, in reverse. Perhaps something would happen, a lightning strike, a meteor, a deep sleep, who knows, and all present would awake to find they could only speak one language, and all humanity would understand oneself and all troubles would be over. Like a gift from above instead of a punishment.

Maria sighed. She looked up and caught the Swiss Guard’s eye. He was a beautiful youth, lean and graceful, and he smiled, coy, since he wasn’t supposed to smile, when their eyes met. She grinned back and nodded. A grin, a weak smile was all she could muster.

“What a beautiful sculpture,” a woman talking to her husband paused beside Maria, “did you see her face? You can feel the pain and anguish in her expression!”

“Yes,” said the man, “Michelangelo was a great artist to have depicted Mary’s feelings so well, having never felt the loss of a child himself.”

Maria scoffed. She hadn’t meant it to be so loud, but it was, and the couple noticed.

“Do you disagree?” The man asked with a polite smile, but eyes that pierced.

“No, I do not. I agree with you about everything,” Maria’s lips quivered, “and I didn’t mean to sound dismissive, but I know her pain.”

She patted her chest and her voice broke.

“Oh,” the man gasped, taken aback and left speechless.

“I’m so sorry, dear,” the woman came to his aid, her eyes fixed on Maria’s and oozing sympathy, “what happened?”

“He was a soldier,” was all Maria could answer.

“Ah, yes, war is often the cause. So many people have died in war. My father died in Korea, and his uncle in World War Two—here in Italy.”

She put her arms around Maria whose sighs had turned into quiet sobs.

“My brother died in Vietnam,” the man added, his gaze and voice now soft, “what was your son’s name?”

“Michael.” The name soothed the sorrow that pierced her tongue.

“Ah, the leader of Heaven’s armies. Do you know the name means the rhetorical question: who is like God?”

Maria gulped and nodded.

“You know,” the lady interjected, “I believe that for every child He takes, He gives another. No death is in vain.”

“True,” Maria sniffed, “and She in there cries for all of us.”

The woman nodded and, after determining that Maria was all right, the couple bid her goodbye and walked on.

Maria glanced at the Swiss guardsman again. He was still looking in her direction and had seen her momentary breakdown. Maria adjusted her backpack, it weighed on her like Michael’s death, and stepped out into St. Peter’s Square. The Roman mid-morning sun shone bright on the statues that lined the hemicycles. The light in Paris shimmers with an enchanting pink glow, but Rome is alight with crisp brilliance!

Maria crossed the square and wandered away from the Vatican. She pondered the couple and wished she’d composed herself enough to ask their names. She wondered if the woman’s grandmother had ever stopped grieving her son, indeed, if any woman ever stops grieving her son.

Maria strolled aimless and found herself lost. She stopped to consult her map; a car sped by. It reminded her of the opening scenes of her favorite movie Il Sorpasso where Vittorio Gassman races around Rome looking for a telephone; the streets are empty and all the shops are closed for a holiday.

“Roberto spent his life on the outside looking in. To really live, if only for a weekend, that’s what it’s all about,” Michael had said when they’d watched it.

Maria’s throat knotted again; that eternal lump that waxed and waned like the moon  which she could never cough out and tangled her words.

“Il Sorpasso means ‘the overtaking’,” she’d said, “I think it’s more meaningful than the English title The Easy Life. Bruno overtakes anything, even Roberto, and his ambush ends in tragedy. Never let yourself be ambushed like that.”

If only she’d eaten those words. Soon after he was gone under a blood sky and a blood earth.

Maria ambled on in a reverie, her mind full of memories of Michael. In Rome, there is always something to see, whether it’s the decorated parapet of a building, or the sculpture on a street corner, but Maria only half saw these wonders because everywhere she saw Michael, in all the stages of his life. A smiling cherub would morph into Michael’s baby face, or the curlicues that decorated a doorway would remind her of his elfin curly hair. At each pause she adjusted her backpack; slung on one shoulder it evoked Michael’s baby weight and when strapped on her back a thousand piggy-back rides galloped through her mind.

Bilbo Baggins told Frodo to be careful of stepping out onto the street since he’d never know where his feet might take him. Maria understood now what he meant. Her feet took her to the Piazza Navona, where she sat down at a café for a rest, and set the heavy backpack on the chair next to her. She fancied she saw Michael playing among the fountains and statues.

The ping of her phone brought her to the present. She answered her sister Rosa’s text and moved on, the backpack slung onto her back once more.

She ambled though the city and came to the Colosseum. Michael had wanted to see it so much. One Halloween he’d dressed up as a gladiator, she and Rosa had made the costume themselves—they’d made all his costumes—complete with a cardboard sword. The next year he’d been a medieval knight, and the year after that a dragoon in Washington’s continental army. War had always fascinated Michael.

Maria met Rosa for a late lunch of Fettuccine Alfredo on the Piazza Augusto Imperatore. They spoke little, Rosa glanced now and then at the backpack Maria set on the adjacent chair. Maria enjoyed the meal, despite the nagging notion that Michael should have been there with them, Fettuccine Alfredo being his favorite dish.

Afterwards, they took a cab that neared them to the Fontana di Trevi and slowly made their way to the Piazza di Trevi on foot, arm in arm with Rosa’s oxygen mask trailing behind them. They marveled at the majestic fountain and sat for a while, admiring every detail of the great statues. Michael would have loved this, he always dreamed of wading in the Trevi fountain like in La Dolce Vita. Rosa was tired and took a cab back to the hotel (she took a sip of the fountain water first, hoping she might return to Rome one day per the superstition).

Maria wandered about by herself and, lost in reflection, strolled on looking but not seeing, her direction as random as her musings, until a child’s delighted laugh, that sounded much like Michael’s pre-school giggle, brought her back to the present. She was at the Tiber, Tevere in Italian, the river that flowed through Rome. How many wars had it seen? How many sorrows? How many lay at its bottom?

There was a story of a famed film director who had swum in its waters, brimming with thousands of years of humanity, and had later died from an infection, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember who. Was it Pier Paolo Pasolini? “No, Mom,” Michael had said when he’d googled it, “someone murdered him, but not there and there’s no mention of him swimming in the Tiber.”

Maria sighed and leaned against the stone guardrail of the Ponte Sant’Angelo, her cheek resting on her hand. She reminisced about all the Italian movies she and Michael had watched together. She loved classic Italian cinema and Michael had inherited that love, or perhaps she’d taught it.

This would have been their first trip to Rome together, he would have been on furlough and they would have met here. The Roman Catacombs had excited Michael but she couldn’t bring herself to visit them yet, maybe tomorrow. He always had a taste for the weird and macabre, and warcraft had always fascinated him. He hadn’t played with Hot Wheels, he’d preferred G.I. Joe. Neither of them had realized that if you live by the sword, you die by it. Maria, at least, had never believed it would be Michael’s destiny. It was wishful thinking on my part. She wondered, not for the first time, if Michael had known what he’d gotten into. Did he die in fear? Pain? The image of her beautiful boy torn to pieces rattled her and that knot in her throat expanded until she could barely breathe. The hot afternoon surrounded her and she covered her mouth with her hands, tears rolling down her cheeks. Her gasps turned into sobs and soon she was wailing, gripping the stone to pull herself together.

Perhaps she should have canceled this trip, Rosa had certainly considered it. But no, Maria wouldn’t have it, and Rosa, pulmonary disease and all, came along. Maria wiped her face with her sleeve and turned to go, not noticing which direction.

“Mom,” Michael’s voice rang out in the Roman afternoon, clear as a bell and stopped her in her tracks; she’d crossed the bridge and was at the Castel Sant’Angelo, and Michael Archangel watched her from above, bronze and triumphant, the sun setting all around, “remember, for every death there is life anew. I lived and died by my choices. Let me go.”

Maria broke into tears again and swung the backpack forward so that she now hugged it. She stood like that for a moment, then composed herself and took out her phone. Heavy tears fell on the screen as she texted Rosa her location. Michael had taught the sisters how to track and find each other with the phone. Newfangled technology baffled both, but Michael insisted on this one thing before he deployed; “so I know you’ll never be lost,” he’d said.

Rosa arrived by taxicab in the Roman twilight, minutes before the sunset. Maria helped her climb out with difficulty and, arm in arm, they made their way to the stone guardrail of the bridge and stood beside an angel that lined the bridge. 

The last rays of the sun splayed out on the water with blinding intensity as if setting the city ablaze.

Maria leaned on the stone and took the urn from her backpack which had laden her all day. Together the sisters opened it and spread Michael’s ashes over the water. They glimmered in the twilight as the wind blew them skyward.