Cresting the hill, I noticed a bench—stashed away under a droopy, green-leafed tree, and overlooking a distant, glimmering Swan Lake. The water was contrasted by the colorful tree scapes and illuminated by a cloudless sky. I basked in the reflection of the sparkling scene, absorbing the image into my pores.

After a long moment, I hoisted my knees up the next summit, which eventually curved then evened out into a half-mile flat. To my right, a white horse was eating grass in a large, fenced-off field, and to my left, I studied the lower trails, which were separated by the pastel brush and golden wheat, swaying to the gentle breeze.

Nearing Swan Lake, my ears caught the sudden chatter that rumbled through the air. The loop was filled with families walking trail wide, fishermen casting zipping lines, equestrians directing trail-goers to stop as they rode by, and children squealing at the sight of any wildlife, in awe of the creatures that inhabited the area.

I studied the people just as much as I studied the landscape—catching the subtle waves of acknowledgment, the bird watchers, and the fast walkers. Amidst the heavy traffic, I searched for the faint slaps of water against the rocks, the gray squirrels hidden in trees, nibbling on nuts, and the overlapping branches that framed the sky, capturing a sliver of the magical scene.

As I finished the loop and exited the bustle, monarch butterflies fluttered with clear paths, hawks soared peacefully overhead, and the sound of small animals crunching through the leaves amplified, while the voices began to fade.

***

Rockefeller State Park Preserve, Fall 2021.

Naomi sits among fifty other classmates, waiting for the evening service to begin. Light shines in from the vibrant blue and green stained glass windows, and brown chairs are arranged in rows on the periwinkle-colored carpet. Cantor Schloss stands on the stage next to two podiums, leading the congregation in prayers. To his back, hidden behind a velvet red curtain, the Torah, the Hebrew Bible, rests in a wooden arc.

“Now, we are going to sing the ‘Hashkiveinu,’” Cantor Schloss says, with his acoustic guitar resting in his arm.

The Hashkiveinu is a blessing that is performed before sleep, praying for protection that one will wake up the next morning.

Naomi sits upright.

“We are going to do it an a round, so wait for my cues,” Cantor Schloss says, referring to the cascading arrangement where each group sings the same song, but starts at different times.

Naomi clears her throat, and scans the heads of her choir-mates.

“Okay, group one, I’m going to count down,” Cantor Schloss says.

The students nod, and Cantor Schloss raises his guitar to the top of his stomach.

Slowly, he starts counting backwards, “Three, two, one.”

“Hashkiveinu Adonai Eloheinu, l’shalom, v’haamideinu shomreinu l’chayim,” squeaky voices fill the small room; Cantor Schloss’ deep, opera-like pitch carries the hymn.

Grant, o God, that we lie down in peace, and raise us up, our Guardian, to life renewed.

They repeat the lyrics.

On the second ‘l’shalom,’ Cantor Schloss cues in group two. “Now!”

The next two grades start singing, overlaying their classmates with the same words. Naomi feels the hairs on her arm prick. The song echoes off the room’s wooden accents, and she absorbs the harmony into her chest.

“Get ready, third group!” Cantor Schloss shouts.

Naomi takes a deep breath, staring into his guitar strings.

“Now!” he says.

Naomi’s sweet, soprano voice floats into the air. Her group blends seamlessly into the staggering song, and the a round reaches full form. Closing her eyes, Naomi's spirit levitates above the chorus, and the vibrations of each word kiss her forehead.

Naomi’s Kabbalat Shabbat Prayer Book opened to the Hashkiveinu.

This afternoon, the double wooden doors were propped open, revealing a small portrait of Via Di Monserrato. I stopped at the end of the staircase, absorbing the warm glow that seeped into the yellow hallway. In the frame, a silver Fiat was pressed up against the back wheels of a black vespa; a green plant grew in a terracotta pot; and shuttered apartment windows were left open, vacant, while most of my neighbors were still at Sunday mass. The only sound I heard was my own footsteps, as I headed towards the door.

Stepping into the street, the golden light landed on my olive skin. I turned left, my ponytail swinging as I spotted the faded frescos, carved cherubs, and sparse graffiti that lined the way. The sun reflected off of the yellow, orange, and rust colored buildings, and with every cobblestone step, the sound of chatter grew louder. Heading towards me, people walked their bikes with basket’s full of shopping bags or carried lumpy totes on their shoulders. Reaching the end of Via Di Monserrato, I rounded the corner, and Campo Di Fiori came into view.

In the rectangular piazza, booths were crammed together. On the left, a bald man with thick fingers sold hard Italian cheeses; in the center, a gray haired woman in a denim apron bagged ginger root, oranges, pairs, figs, and walnuts; and to the right, wide cappuccino cups, colorful plates, and wooden spatulas were sprawled across tables and inside large bowls to peruse.

In their own, non-crowded section, two vendors overlooked the scene. Under each tent, they displayed approximately thirty types of flowers. For half an hour, I circled every bucket, holding up one bundle to the other. I started by grabbing eucalyptus for the minty smell, then collected small, white and purple daisies, sprawling, pastel pink chrysanthemums, and dainty dragon’s breath. Handing over my selections, I watched the florist place each stem together, assembling two, well-balanced arrangements that blossomed from their wrapping.

Completing my errand, I began back down Via Di Monserrato towards my apartment. This time, passerby’s said “buongiorno,” smiling brightly at the bouquets resting in my arms. I blushed, and replied with the most convincing “buongiorno” I could muster, rolling my “r” with gusto.

Just as I turned the corner, I heard the wheels of a bicycle slow to a putter, and a man with a camera slung over his shoulder, appeared at my side. He stood on the pedals.

“Can I take your picture,” he asked, his native accident injecting syllables into every word.

“Um, sure!” I flustered.

With one palm on the handlebars, he lifted his camera and took the snapshot before I could look unnatural.

“Grazie!” he shouted, grinning over his shoulder.

As he rode away, I could feel the Italian blood tingling beneath my skin.

Campo Di Fiori taken by Abby Rose // 2022

Campo Di Fiori taken by Abby Rose // 2022

Campo Di Fiori taken by Abby Rose // 2022

Campo Di Fiori taken by Abby Rose // 2022

Subscribe now