Classic Carnation #7
I stood on the edge of the railing and watched as people moved through. Older couples on second honeymoons, tour groups of Americans wearing fanny packs and sneakers, and other interested people moving up and down the beautiful spiral staircase and I inspected every one.
He was late. He was always late. Then again, some things never change. The moment I made the decision to study in Italy, I had no intention of calling him. I'd promised myself to not allow him to know that I was there. But a night of one too many glasses of free grappa and whispered compliments from Italian men gave me the confidence to pick up the phone. So here I was at the top of the staircase in my new pumps with a bit too much cleavage, staring down into my past.
He was a part of me that I'd long since gotten rid of. He helped me through some of the most difficult times in my life. Saying good-bye had not been an easy task. We met on the concrete courtyard of our high school. There'd been a fire drill and I tripped into him trying to startle a close friend.
We spent the next few years sharing everything from inside jokes to inappropriate jokes, sad stories to sex stories, insignificant moments to instrumental moments. We went through significant others like cars in a toll booth, and when we'd find a relationship that lasted, inevitably we'd end up cheating with each other. We spent years denying the attraction. We left for college and couldn't handle being without each other. But being together changed our dynamic and it was never right. Time passed and we grew apart. Quickly. Too quickly.
I started doing things in college I'd never envisioned myself doing. I decided to study abroad in hopes of getting away to find myself again. I chose Italy before I found out he'd been stationed there. And the first time I'd visited the Vatican, I spent hours at the top of this staircase thinking of him. How he'd remark about the history of the church and the museum before pontificating on the role of God in his life and asking me about my relationship with Christ. I'd dodge the question with some generic answer about it being "personal" and then spiral into something else.
He'd been the one to bring me to Christ. I thought that I was thankful. When my faith had been tested or had wavered, he'd been there to see me through. In some ways, he had been my personal savior, my guardian angel who'd protected me in the rough times and celebrated me in the great. The further we'd grown apart the less I realized I was going through a crisis of faith. Then it hit me, it wasn't the faith in Christ I needed. I simply needed faith in him. There was something about the way it felt when he was postured next to me. Something comforting about the words "It'll be okay" being uttered from his mouth. Without him, there was no God in my life, no savior, nothing.
Someone once told me that people need religion to give them something to live for. That religion is not a relationship or belief in a deity, a set of rules and morals to live ones life by, it was a manner of justifying existence. As humans we're constantly looking to answer the question "why", especially when it concerns ourselves. Thus the greatest question for man is the reason for his existence. Most people run to religion as a safe haven. Others choose charity work, drugs, academia, or any combination. It is a driving force. That same person then postulated that hell was being unable to find that justification.
After spending twenty minutes searching for him on the ground floor of the Vatican, I was watching a tourist group pass when I saw him. Tall and lanky in a well-tailored suit. Military service suited him well. He stopped and looked up through the crowds looking for me. When he caught my eye he shot me his million-dollar smile and waved. And that was my cue. I smiled, winked and waved back. And in one fell swoop, I hooked the heel of my crimson pump on the railing. The sparkle left his eyes as they were hooked to mine as I gathered my balance, hopped, and flew over the stairwell into hell.
He was late. He was always late. Then again, some things never change. The moment I made the decision to study in Italy, I had no intention of calling him. I'd promised myself to not allow him to know that I was there. But a night of one too many glasses of free grappa and whispered compliments from Italian men gave me the confidence to pick up the phone. So here I was at the top of the staircase in my new pumps with a bit too much cleavage, staring down into my past.
He was a part of me that I'd long since gotten rid of. He helped me through some of the most difficult times in my life. Saying good-bye had not been an easy task. We met on the concrete courtyard of our high school. There'd been a fire drill and I tripped into him trying to startle a close friend.
We spent the next few years sharing everything from inside jokes to inappropriate jokes, sad stories to sex stories, insignificant moments to instrumental moments. We went through significant others like cars in a toll booth, and when we'd find a relationship that lasted, inevitably we'd end up cheating with each other. We spent years denying the attraction. We left for college and couldn't handle being without each other. But being together changed our dynamic and it was never right. Time passed and we grew apart. Quickly. Too quickly.
I started doing things in college I'd never envisioned myself doing. I decided to study abroad in hopes of getting away to find myself again. I chose Italy before I found out he'd been stationed there. And the first time I'd visited the Vatican, I spent hours at the top of this staircase thinking of him. How he'd remark about the history of the church and the museum before pontificating on the role of God in his life and asking me about my relationship with Christ. I'd dodge the question with some generic answer about it being "personal" and then spiral into something else.
He'd been the one to bring me to Christ. I thought that I was thankful. When my faith had been tested or had wavered, he'd been there to see me through. In some ways, he had been my personal savior, my guardian angel who'd protected me in the rough times and celebrated me in the great. The further we'd grown apart the less I realized I was going through a crisis of faith. Then it hit me, it wasn't the faith in Christ I needed. I simply needed faith in him. There was something about the way it felt when he was postured next to me. Something comforting about the words "It'll be okay" being uttered from his mouth. Without him, there was no God in my life, no savior, nothing.
Someone once told me that people need religion to give them something to live for. That religion is not a relationship or belief in a deity, a set of rules and morals to live ones life by, it was a manner of justifying existence. As humans we're constantly looking to answer the question "why", especially when it concerns ourselves. Thus the greatest question for man is the reason for his existence. Most people run to religion as a safe haven. Others choose charity work, drugs, academia, or any combination. It is a driving force. That same person then postulated that hell was being unable to find that justification.
After spending twenty minutes searching for him on the ground floor of the Vatican, I was watching a tourist group pass when I saw him. Tall and lanky in a well-tailored suit. Military service suited him well. He stopped and looked up through the crowds looking for me. When he caught my eye he shot me his million-dollar smile and waved. And that was my cue. I smiled, winked and waved back. And in one fell swoop, I hooked the heel of my crimson pump on the railing. The sparkle left his eyes as they were hooked to mine as I gathered my balance, hopped, and flew over the stairwell into hell.
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