Emily Federico

            The scent of orange trees reaches me on the slight wind and intermingles with jasmine and clover.   The drip of rainwater onto gravel paths collects with the blossoms and washes away the gas and cigarette clouds commonly found on Roman streets. The screech of young children, along with the linguistically confused rants of a man on the corner wall, combine to form a sense of chaos among the orchard, the pesky sounds of human existence among tranquil nature.   The click of the camera shutters and the occasional blare of car horns from the nearby street only reinforces the immense presence of human life on the hill.   My back stiffens as I hear the crunching of footsteps coming towards my solitary perch but quickly pass by for a view of the city.   Even amongst the noise, I can still hear the muted gasps of those admiring the skyline and the wincing of elbows being thrown for the perfect Instagram shot...

             He is broken, slumped over in marbled pain.   His face is turned towards the base, eyes downcast and searching for any sign of hope among his despair.   Chiseled lines concave into folded flesh and his hand steadies him on the base, elbow bent in despondent resignation.   His beard grazes the inside of his chin, a collar of his shame.   A small wound bled from his folded chest, marbled blood spitting out of his sides and into his concaved stomach.   His torso is an emblem of defeat, folded and grotesque, the mark of a strong and athletic man diminished by the bending of flesh.   Scattered around him are marks of war, fragmented sword, and shields scattered around Gaul, emblems of a failed military conquest.   He pays no mind to the destruction surrounding him.   His gaze focuses on his hand, placed on his bent knee as if to steady himself from his fall from grace.   The surrounding statues s...

Giornale #2             As I walked along the street, the marble façade and saint figures, arms outstretched towards the heavens, loomed in the distance.   Its green doors yawned into the cavernous space beyond, beckoning me away from the rush of Vespas and the cries of young Italian soccer players in the courtyard.   Once I passed through the doors, the cacophony of noise faded away, replaced by the mutterings of an Italian mass and the hushed quiet of tourists milling about.   The priest’s calls to remember the works of St. Paul and the importance of baptism as a way of spreading Jesus’s message reverberated throughout the cave-like ceilings.   Throughout the service, several worshippers nodded as the glasses-clad and bean-pole priest spoke with a calm but authoritative reminder to remember the Gospel.   These words stuck with me as I wandered the church’s aisles.   Decorated frescoes of Mary holdi...

Her skirt swishes against the cobblestone and her habit trails behind her as she sways toward the basilica entrance, hands folded in prayer.  Despite the glaring sunlight, she wraps her fleece tighter around her willow frame as she continues her solo trek to the basilica.  Her cross glints against her periwinkle cloth, her divine armor against the secular world.  She strides across the piazza, oblivious to the chattering tourists surrounding her with iPhones and tour guides.  She is determined to see her bridegroom and savior and command plow through the crowds with the strength only her faith gives her.  The life of a Roman nun never appealed to her as a teenager.  She used to scoff at the sandal-clad women walking by as she drank full bottles of wine, slumped in the streets or vomiting in a back alley while her friends passed wrapped papers of whatever the street offered to them that day.  She found shallow pleasure in kissing random strangers in p...

The clink of selfie sticks and the squelch of plastic pigs flopping onto the pavement invade the serene trickle of the Four Rivers Fountain.  Lilting Italian, coupled with sprinklings of Mandarin, English and French, cumulate together in the square.  Americans pass by with thick, brash accents while the lyrical flows of Italian bring a slight smile to my face.   Wafts of fresh pesto or Bolognese pasta from surrounding restaurants entice me from my seat but the cool splash of the fountain water is too soothing on my warm shoulders.  It feels good to sit.  In the distance, I hear the clang of an ambulance racing down the too narrow streets and the honk of Vespas.  I’m grateful I don’t have to dodge those metallic death traps for even a few minutes.  The soft brush of trash against the cobblestones is a soothing 21st-century juxtaposition to the commotion lying just beyond the square.  Passing by my perch on the Four Rivers Fountain, the di...