A memory of Rome

by Željka Sekulović (Serbia)

A leap into the unknown Italy

A memory of Rome I find myself in a maze of trees. I feel how the ground under my feet is shaped, I can tell the way something stood or the way it stepped on this very part of soil before I did. I feel the light humidity of air crawling down my skin, as if it is reminding me of the rain. The oxygen that I am breathing is still young and innocent, almost vulnerable. It seems like everything here has been born just moments ago, like Earth is rebirthing itself. As I am wandering through the unknown, seemingly too old and not sacred enough for this place, I am realizing what it is like to feel the life itself. I was walking down the steepy, stony streets of Rome. White walls were springing up as far as my eyes could see. I was able to sense the years that had touched the rock of which those walls were made. My skin is filling you with this memory of hers, the memory of sweet parfume smell and the sensation of the light summer breeze. Fading sounds of street music were dancing somewhere in the forum, countiniously getting themselves lost, while I was repeteadly finding them. I was looking at the Coloseum while it was bathing in a purplish eve. I don't know if I was realy hungry, or just craving food, but I decided it was time to sit somewhere and have dinner. I ordered pasta and some wine. People are realy nice here, I could tell they love people. Italy embraces you in a way that her threads are holding you so lightly that you are barely being touched, but you can feel her soft fingers always waiting for you to come back. As I am walking between these tremendous trees and between these memories of yesterday, I beigin to hear silent, muffled rustling of the waves. The air is becoming sharper, and finally, I find myself standing on the beach. Midnight is long gone, and the sea is about to fall asleep. In the scent of salt, the unburdened lightness of exsistence is being felt. Under the fingers of my hand, I feel that the sand is cold and heavy from the moisture, although the tide still hasn't reached it. The quietness of the dawn is dorming me in a feeling of duration. Half conscious, I'm living only through my senses, trying to remember what it is like to have Italy living in myself.