on my beautiful face. I pulled the covers up to my chin, and closed my eyes, letting my flaxen hair fall around my shoulders. But a sudden thought forced me to reopen them.
If I’m here, where the hell is Simonetta?
Sandro rested at the feet of Simonetta in the Ognissanti, with my urn placed atop his gravestone. Sandro and Simonetta were quietly bonded together so near to me in the Church, and yet I couldn’t sense their presence in the afterlife. Dead or alive, their bond was something I would never know or understand, so I resolved to return to the task of sleeping.
I shut my eyes again, and before I knew it, I found myself back in the Ognissanti—safely returned to the dark, cross-shaped church. My vacation from my cold reality had ended. But in the church, I could sense nothing but profound silence. No nuns or monks roaming the aisles or chapels, the visitors gone for the night.
I absorbed the familiar sights before me: Giotto’s newly found crucifix in the left transept, Botticelli’s Saint Augustine in the nave, and the many frescos by Ghirlandaio scattered about. The now more recognizable faces of the Vespucci family were again surrounding me. The graves of Sandro, Simonetta, and even Amerigo Vespucci, the great explorer, all fixtures of my environment.
Trying to embrace my inevitable reality, I called out, “Mariano! I’m back! And I have so much to tell you!” I received no reply. Instead, I perceived only cold, eerie silence. “Mariano! I met you in person! And I met Sandro!”
I desperately wanted Mariano’s gratitude for saving his relationship with his son. I wanted him to know where I’d been, and what I’d done. I wanted to tell him everything. Mariano . My only friend.
“Mariano! Where are you? Are you angry with me?”
Still no reply. The deafening stillness made me feel so alone.
Could Mariano have moved on to the afterlife? Had he found the light he always talked about?
He had no more unfinished business to resolve. I dreaded the thought of spending eternity without him, an infinite number of days and nights alone and restless once again. Even though I’d not longed for Mariano’s ghostly company while in my fantasy existence, I needed it now. I needed him to know.
I examined every crevice and nook of the small church for something different, some clue as to what was going on, but everything was the same as I’d left it—except the spirit of Mariano was missing; gone from this realm.
Then I sensed a different presence, and instantly knew it wasn’t the spirit of Mariano. The stagnant air became tense, as my earthly home had been invaded by the unwanted. I felt it all around me, lurking somewhere in the Ognissanti. I searched the darkness for fear that the presence was an evil spirit. But then I heard the familiar howl, and realized the spirit was mischievous, but not overtly malevolent.
The trickster materialized, appearing in the form of the coyote. There was no doubt this was because of my Native American origin; the essence of my mind creating the trickster in the tangible form to which I was accustomed. The coyote of Native American folklore is sometimes portrayed as a creator, or a warrior, or even a clown, but for me, he was always the sage messenger of truth in his convoluted and annoying way. He strutted his beautiful, multicolored coat through the nave, and howled again.
There were only two periods of time in which I’d seen the trickster before; times when I was ignorantly blind to the obvious truth—during my life, but never in the afterlife.
What was he here to tell me this time?
The coyote sauntered through the church and reached the Vespucci Chapel. He jumped the small fence that prevented tourists from defacing the graves, and pawed at the resting place of Sandro and Simonetta, then sniffed for a moment at my urn.
“What do you want, trickster? Why don’t you just show me what I should obviously know! Where is Mariano?”
The coyote just looked at me
If I’m here, where the hell is Simonetta?
Sandro rested at the feet of Simonetta in the Ognissanti, with my urn placed atop his gravestone. Sandro and Simonetta were quietly bonded together so near to me in the Church, and yet I couldn’t sense their presence in the afterlife. Dead or alive, their bond was something I would never know or understand, so I resolved to return to the task of sleeping.
I shut my eyes again, and before I knew it, I found myself back in the Ognissanti—safely returned to the dark, cross-shaped church. My vacation from my cold reality had ended. But in the church, I could sense nothing but profound silence. No nuns or monks roaming the aisles or chapels, the visitors gone for the night.
I absorbed the familiar sights before me: Giotto’s newly found crucifix in the left transept, Botticelli’s Saint Augustine in the nave, and the many frescos by Ghirlandaio scattered about. The now more recognizable faces of the Vespucci family were again surrounding me. The graves of Sandro, Simonetta, and even Amerigo Vespucci, the great explorer, all fixtures of my environment.
Trying to embrace my inevitable reality, I called out, “Mariano! I’m back! And I have so much to tell you!” I received no reply. Instead, I perceived only cold, eerie silence. “Mariano! I met you in person! And I met Sandro!”
I desperately wanted Mariano’s gratitude for saving his relationship with his son. I wanted him to know where I’d been, and what I’d done. I wanted to tell him everything. Mariano . My only friend.
“Mariano! Where are you? Are you angry with me?”
Still no reply. The deafening stillness made me feel so alone.
Could Mariano have moved on to the afterlife? Had he found the light he always talked about?
He had no more unfinished business to resolve. I dreaded the thought of spending eternity without him, an infinite number of days and nights alone and restless once again. Even though I’d not longed for Mariano’s ghostly company while in my fantasy existence, I needed it now. I needed him to know.
I examined every crevice and nook of the small church for something different, some clue as to what was going on, but everything was the same as I’d left it—except the spirit of Mariano was missing; gone from this realm.
Then I sensed a different presence, and instantly knew it wasn’t the spirit of Mariano. The stagnant air became tense, as my earthly home had been invaded by the unwanted. I felt it all around me, lurking somewhere in the Ognissanti. I searched the darkness for fear that the presence was an evil spirit. But then I heard the familiar howl, and realized the spirit was mischievous, but not overtly malevolent.
The trickster materialized, appearing in the form of the coyote. There was no doubt this was because of my Native American origin; the essence of my mind creating the trickster in the tangible form to which I was accustomed. The coyote of Native American folklore is sometimes portrayed as a creator, or a warrior, or even a clown, but for me, he was always the sage messenger of truth in his convoluted and annoying way. He strutted his beautiful, multicolored coat through the nave, and howled again.
There were only two periods of time in which I’d seen the trickster before; times when I was ignorantly blind to the obvious truth—during my life, but never in the afterlife.
What was he here to tell me this time?
The coyote sauntered through the church and reached the Vespucci Chapel. He jumped the small fence that prevented tourists from defacing the graves, and pawed at the resting place of Sandro and Simonetta, then sniffed for a moment at my urn.
“What do you want, trickster? Why don’t you just show me what I should obviously know! Where is Mariano?”
The coyote just looked at me
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