The river, dirty and full of urban run off, passes through city mostly ignored. The same color as morning cappuccinos, tinted by silt, rat carcass, car exhaust, starling shit, and Vatican dust, the Tiber flows south eventually rapping around an ancient ait associated with healing. Right before this island, (which is shaped like a ship, housing the same hospital since 1584, and goes by the name "Fatebenefratelli") there is a small cascade, a man-made crest that the water arches across. The smooth fall creates an undertow, and all things that float get trapped there. She stands watching that water. Every bottle with cap still in place, each lonely football, and pieces of wind-swept Styrofoam bob in the sunlight, churning, almost escaping towards the island, but eventually being pulled back. There was one out of place tree today, bare-barked and leafless, rotating like a cumbersome crocodile in the current. The branches of the tree kick blue water bottles away. She get’s hopeful, thinking maybe one will eventually break free. Her heart falls a little as the garbage buoy drifts back. No one else in the city seems to notice the water. People do nothing else but cross the bridge. What would it feel like to fly today? She stood on the white marble ledge; a breeze brought smells from the see and blew her hair into her eyes. None of the scooters or mini cars driving by knew who she was; even fewer people noticed the new, brightly colored and fleshy sculpture in place. She leapt. She expected that she would never reach the water. Even if she were wrong, at least she’d be caught in the whirling.
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