In a church in Rome, I found an angel made of bronze. She had knobby, over-sized feet and raggedy wings. She held her hands out in front of her, pronouncing, insisting, beseeching. Every day I made a point of going to greet this angel, to stand beside her and admire her battered, heartbroken self. I could feel a thin thread connecting us, a filament of something that ran from my heart to hers.
I recognized her.
On my last day in Rome, standing there, looking up, I realized why she was so familiar. This, I thought, is the big-toed, flying-in-spite-of-herself, hoping-in-spite-of-herself, beaten-up, broken-down being who tells stories.
You, I thought. I know you. Thank you.
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