Properly earlier than daybreak, awake in my mattress, shoulder throbbing, arm in a sling, I considered an angel on the entrance to the Church of Santa Maria dei Servi in Orvieto. The angel is a part of a fresco portray inside the primary door and to the fitting, in slightly facet chamber that’s normally barred and locked. Late one night time, nonetheless, I discovered the gate ajar, and entered. And there on the wall was a sacred scene, the exaltation of a saint or a day within the life of the Virgin Mary, with attendant angels trying on. Besides one angel was trying proper out of the wall at me as a substitute. At me, I swear, with a gaze so direct and extreme and realizing and but so welcoming as properly, straight out of the Renaissance. There was one thing pure about these eyes, and eternally younger, and full of holy power. And I felt seen, and I felt recognized, and I felt transfixed and included, with or with out my will. That’s what I knew that night time, and this night time too, although my aching shoulder nonetheless throbbed, and I lay sleepless, and it appeared the ache would by no means finish.
