She’s cradling her son’s broken, bloodied, lifeless body the way she cradled him as an infant. He’s grown now, but you know what they say – no matter how big they get, they’re always your baby. What had he done but offer love and hope for the future? And the world’s inability to respond in kind punctured his hands and pierced his side and left him splayed out to die.
And whose sins do the dead bodies of the children in Uvalde bear? (Or Sandy Hook…or Marjory Stoneman Douglass…or Columbine…or…or…) What are the failings in their world that ripped through their bodies until all the love and hope for the future drained out? How many more mothers will cradle the dead bodies of their always-my-babies?
She grieves behind plexiglass, and I wonder if it’s bulletproof. That would be ironic.
After seeing Allison off to her train back to Paris, we spent the morning at the Vatican, taxied to Trevi Fountain for obligatory selfies and appreciative ooohing, had a break for lunch and Aperol spritzes, the joined my cousin, mother, and aunt to visit the Vatican Museum and Sistine Chapel. Dinner was eaten after 10, so the long uphill walk back to our Airbnb helped take the edge off our gluttony.