Musée Magazine Issue No. 15 - Place | Page 7

ROME IS...

b y An d r é Ac i m a n

Rome is color. Ochre by day, by noon blinding white

clay hasn’t been aired in ages, the hint of gathering

marble, followed by the inevitable decline to saffron and

heat on a late October pavement, that whiff of pine

dirty blond and, finally, auburn tones that hint of a fourth

cologne on the man sweating next to me on the bus,

cup of coffee, and then Campari red. By twilight, every-

the musty feel of shops that won’t have air conditioning,

thing turns dark plum and bruised aubergine, and slate

the listless exhalation of chamomile up and down

gray cobblestones called sampietrini start gleaming in the

our stairwell telling me that sleep doesn’t come easy

dark, where by midnight the libido scurries about the

here, the sly intrusions of cigarette smoke just about

narrow lanes. Not one Roman is not beautiful.

everywhere, and that hint of damp wool after it rains

Rome is sound. The rattle of scooters threading their way

reminding me of my mother.

through old Rome, the clang of a hammer going about its

Rome is touch. An old wall, still warm after centuries of

business while everyone naps undisturbed-because naps

just standing there, leaves a film of sunburnt dust on your

need noise to spell the silence more. The tinnitus of workers

hand to tell you it can still feel things. Everything feels

hammering down the sampietrini, one by one, dousing

things here. You want to touch—the hood of a car, the

their thirst from plastic water bottles which they empty

trickle from an ice cream cone, the girl whose hand rests

and like to crush in brawny hands. The clatter of dishes

so close to yours you’re sure she knows, she knows…

and silverware as you walk about Campo Marzio and

Rome is taste. The shutters drawn slightly in to keep the

hear everyone gathered for lunch upstairs. The splash of

sun out, a glass of red wine, pasta with sauce that’s been

a fountain at two. The silence on Via dei Coronari at two.

stewed for hours, grated parmesan, fizzy water from

The shutdown of time at two. Until the clamor of rolling

anywhere, and if you’re with someone dear, stop look-

shutters being raised and the catcalls of friends having a

ing, you’ve come home.

smoke on tiny Vicolo Savelli.

Rome is memory. Like love, it never dies; it finds others

Rome is scent. Narrow hallways where musty dank

to love. Rome is love.

©Jeannette Montgomery Barron 2012-2015.

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