by Casimira Calascibetta
Where have you been? she asks, sacramental wine staining pearl-colored teeth. In Rome, I want to say. Wandering the Cerasi Chapel of Santa Maria del Popolo, poking holes in the Assumption of the Virgin. Scratching uncut nails along unkempt cobbled alleyways to drown out the sacred sounds of Vivaldi. Kicking down the Holy Door of St. Peter’s Basilica and watching the mortar and cement crumble around its frame. Nonnina, I’ve been standing in the center of Parco Adriano, screaming into the sky and no longer waiting for its answer. But instead, I tell her, I’ve been busy, so busy. The truth is, I’ve never been to Rome, and I don’t think I’ll ever go — all this time, I’ve been nowhere but here, stuck right at the foot of the hill I’ll watch her live and die on.