i went down, as i often did on tuesdays, to stare at the
straight lines of the loading and unloading trains. i liked the structure of
it- those metal almost cylinders, static and silent and the cables of human movement
that morphed from constrained pulsing order to chaotic absurd throngs in a
moment, then back again. i had been in rome for months, languished in the
august heat in sync with the whole city that seemed to capitulate to the weight
of the weather and the oppressive invasion of tourists. but the cobblestones,
and the baroque facades had become common place, just the week before i had
been walking down via napoleone III turned left unto via gioberti cut through a
heard of hissing and wailing stagnated cars and passed as disinterested as a
spring stream right past the santa maria maggiore. termini was my wistful port,
a cliff from which i could stare out at leaving made manifest.
the suddenly peeling away from a view of disembarking I saw
a woman who looked like, exactly, a girl i had once known. i remembered that
moment we shared, as she unwound her ḥijāb, how her the pristine cream neck
revealed itself like one of solomon’s towers. it was a frozen moment for me,
that never seemed to fray with the passing of time, the act of her unwinding
the surprising lengths of her dark curly hair. and all the skin and the shed
sanctity less revealing than her eyes, and the tremble in her voice as she
asked me a question. it was her, i was
sure of it, though i knew it was not. the heart shape of her face, and the
fierce aura that exuded from her seemed exact. and so my mind and heart could
not reconcile, and as i called out her name, in a choked voice, she didn’t bother
to turn to it. it wasn’t her name, it was august in rome and I was imagining
things.
