What Remains of the Fair Simonetta by Laura T. Emery Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura T. Emery
respect that it wasn’t dedicated to any particular saint. Since I hadn’t been a Catholic, or even a religious person in the traditional sense, the Ognissanti to me had always been more about the company than the faith. I was content to spend eternity cozied up with greatness. Since the moment I had first entered the church in life, I felt I had a strong connection with the Ognissanti and its inhabitants, even stronger than the bond I shared with my own Native American tribe.
A nun suddenly emerged from the wooden door, propping it open for those who may wish to enter. I could’ve sworn, even from our distance, that she was wearing a Miraculous Medal around her neck similar to mine .
How was it possible?
The concept of the Medal of the Immaculate Conception wasn’t even conceived until the 1800s by Saint Catherine Labouré after her vision of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Sister Constance, a nun at the Ognissanti in the twenty-first century, had given the medal to me and explained that it represented the Virgin Mary’s intercession on my behalf at the moment of death. A story I now believed had some merit.
But the nun’s face .
She resembled my Sister Constance of the future in so many ways. She shared the same shriveled appearance of wisdom, and gray look of age.
The nun beckoned me with a wave, and when she smiled, I could clearly see her toothless resemblance.
Was Sister Constance like six-hundred years old when she died in my future?
I suppose anything could be possible. But I remembered she had told me the story of how she came to be there. She was sent against her will to the convent, and she had a lover and bore a child after she became the bride of God. Sister Constance was definitely not an everlasting spirit without sin.
I shook my head “no” and hurried past, fearing the shriveled nun and the church would suck me back into my realm.
We passed through the piazza and continued the short distance to the edge of the Arno River, where Mariano began to lay the pieces of hide on the bank. I didn’t hesitate to assist him, and was well equipped to do so, as he had explained the tanning process ad naseum over the eleven years we were together. I could tell he felt it was improper for me to help him, but remained silent on the matter, as I dipped and rubbed the hides, working with Mariano in perfect harmony.
“I had a tannery on the Mugnano,” Mariano later explained, as he rolled the prepared hides back up the Borgo Ognissanti with his cart. “I had many workers.”
“What happened?” I asked, although I knew full well.
Sandro happened.
“I sold the tannery some years ago.”
“Let me guess. You continue to tan hides because Sandro works only when he chooses?”
“Yes,” he conceded. “But how did you know?”
Because you told me until I imagined you as blue in the face.
“That seems to be his impetuous nature. He’s a genius. Creative men can’t be confined to the rules of society.”
“Spoken like a true woman of means.”
“I understand your frustration with him, but in the end, he’ll contribute more to this world than you or I can even imagine.”
Although I didn’t need to imagine .
Men would attempt and fail to imitate his style and beauty of line for years to come. And the rest, as they say, is history…or, the distant future, depending on how one perceives it.
I wished I could tell Mariano the whole truth; tell him how sorry he’ll be for six-hundred years to come. I longed to tell him about how I once left my nine-to-five existence behind, when I became aware that I wasn’t really living. I wanted to convince him that we don’t have to comply with what society dictates, whichever society that may be. But Mariano had traditional values. In his mind, a man was to get married, start a family, and take pride in working hard to raise that family. He was no different than the fathers of the modern day who want their children to go to college and succeed—not to cast
A nun suddenly emerged from the wooden door, propping it open for those who may wish to enter. I could’ve sworn, even from our distance, that she was wearing a Miraculous Medal around her neck similar to mine .
How was it possible?
The concept of the Medal of the Immaculate Conception wasn’t even conceived until the 1800s by Saint Catherine Labouré after her vision of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Sister Constance, a nun at the Ognissanti in the twenty-first century, had given the medal to me and explained that it represented the Virgin Mary’s intercession on my behalf at the moment of death. A story I now believed had some merit.
But the nun’s face .
She resembled my Sister Constance of the future in so many ways. She shared the same shriveled appearance of wisdom, and gray look of age.
The nun beckoned me with a wave, and when she smiled, I could clearly see her toothless resemblance.
Was Sister Constance like six-hundred years old when she died in my future?
I suppose anything could be possible. But I remembered she had told me the story of how she came to be there. She was sent against her will to the convent, and she had a lover and bore a child after she became the bride of God. Sister Constance was definitely not an everlasting spirit without sin.
I shook my head “no” and hurried past, fearing the shriveled nun and the church would suck me back into my realm.
We passed through the piazza and continued the short distance to the edge of the Arno River, where Mariano began to lay the pieces of hide on the bank. I didn’t hesitate to assist him, and was well equipped to do so, as he had explained the tanning process ad naseum over the eleven years we were together. I could tell he felt it was improper for me to help him, but remained silent on the matter, as I dipped and rubbed the hides, working with Mariano in perfect harmony.
“I had a tannery on the Mugnano,” Mariano later explained, as he rolled the prepared hides back up the Borgo Ognissanti with his cart. “I had many workers.”
“What happened?” I asked, although I knew full well.
Sandro happened.
“I sold the tannery some years ago.”
“Let me guess. You continue to tan hides because Sandro works only when he chooses?”
“Yes,” he conceded. “But how did you know?”
Because you told me until I imagined you as blue in the face.
“That seems to be his impetuous nature. He’s a genius. Creative men can’t be confined to the rules of society.”
“Spoken like a true woman of means.”
“I understand your frustration with him, but in the end, he’ll contribute more to this world than you or I can even imagine.”
Although I didn’t need to imagine .
Men would attempt and fail to imitate his style and beauty of line for years to come. And the rest, as they say, is history…or, the distant future, depending on how one perceives it.
I wished I could tell Mariano the whole truth; tell him how sorry he’ll be for six-hundred years to come. I longed to tell him about how I once left my nine-to-five existence behind, when I became aware that I wasn’t really living. I wanted to convince him that we don’t have to comply with what society dictates, whichever society that may be. But Mariano had traditional values. In his mind, a man was to get married, start a family, and take pride in working hard to raise that family. He was no different than the fathers of the modern day who want their children to go to college and succeed—not to cast