Post by zachmiller on Jun 28, 2014 9:40:04 GMT -5
The Virgin Mary Turns Her Back to the South
The Virgin Mary stands on a grassy hill rising out of the center of Quito, Ecuador. If you were to climb the tower of Quito’s gothic Basilica, you would find her boarded between the Basilica's two stark clock-towers. You would be looking south, and the Virgin Mary would be looking into your eyes, the city spreading around you both in all directions.
She has her back to the south. This is the story of the day she turned her back.
She was wearing red shoes. Her high heels clicked against the cobblestone. The sun dug its baby teeth into her bare shoulders, burning through the thin layer of atmosphere. She ducked into the cool shade under some nameless saloon’s overhang, and slouched into a chair, her bonny knees together. She plopped her clutch down on the table, and, with the tips of her fingers, pushed the menu to the far edge.
“Jugo de maracuya,” she told the waiter, when he came. And then she waited while the blender began to roar in the back, and watched as motorbikes bounced up the road.
After she finished her juice, she pulled two dollars out of her clutch and placed their corners under her empty glass. She walked back out into the thin brightness of the sun and clicked back down the road, the way she had come.
She never went to the south side of the city again. It wasn’t that the juice was bad or the bar dirty. The cobblestones weren’t any less even. The great, green shoulders of Pichincha, looming to the west, were just as tall and green, and the sky was the same sharp, crisp blue.
She just never went back, and she never thought about why.
The Virgin Mary stands on a grassy hill rising out of the center of Quito, Ecuador. If you were to climb the tower of Quito’s gothic Basilica, you would find her boarded between the Basilica's two stark clock-towers. You would be looking south, and the Virgin Mary would be looking into your eyes, the city spreading around you both in all directions.
She has her back to the south. This is the story of the day she turned her back.
She was wearing red shoes. Her high heels clicked against the cobblestone. The sun dug its baby teeth into her bare shoulders, burning through the thin layer of atmosphere. She ducked into the cool shade under some nameless saloon’s overhang, and slouched into a chair, her bonny knees together. She plopped her clutch down on the table, and, with the tips of her fingers, pushed the menu to the far edge.
“Jugo de maracuya,” she told the waiter, when he came. And then she waited while the blender began to roar in the back, and watched as motorbikes bounced up the road.
After she finished her juice, she pulled two dollars out of her clutch and placed their corners under her empty glass. She walked back out into the thin brightness of the sun and clicked back down the road, the way she had come.
She never went to the south side of the city again. It wasn’t that the juice was bad or the bar dirty. The cobblestones weren’t any less even. The great, green shoulders of Pichincha, looming to the west, were just as tall and green, and the sky was the same sharp, crisp blue.
She just never went back, and she never thought about why.