San Francesco a Ripa Grande

I entered through the small doorway on the legs, the one connecting it to the neighbor chapel. I didn't have to bend my head. I first saw a blur of white. What caught my mind as I got closer were the folds of her dress. So stiff, yet somehow alive. I lean my head against a column, my hands pushing the postcard up against another. I'm in my safe spot - at the base of the columns. Her hand clutching at her chest seems real. I don't know what emotion she has just felt, but it's a strong one. The lighting highlights her face, makes the shadows of the folds even more pronounced. Whispers next to me. I think the woman is explaining the story of the statue. Another holds a guidebook. It's in Italian. She lies on something like the chaise of Pauline Bonaparte, but that's where the similarities end. Eyes closed. She thinks only proper thoughts.