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Quiet in the Piazza

by Jennifer Caudle

jenpiazza

Quiet seems to lay across the piazza on Sunday during pausa. Cars seem extinct. No motorcycle engines rev or brakes squeal. The fountain—usually covered by the thick of cars—now stands tall and proud, reminiscent of the young Italian men. Few people talk. They enjoy their coffee and relax. Saturday night’s party replaced by quiet repose.

Only a few people are scattered amongst the cafes. The whispers of small conversations mingle in the air. The silence weighs heavy. It seems awkward almost disrespectful to disturb. Yet one voice, then two voices, the hush begins to fade. Laughter flirts with the silence, breaking down its undefined barrier. Banter grows with the intensity of the sun’s heat.

Old friends greet one another. Romano, an older gentleman, welcomes others with old-world charm. It is easy to see his kind heart. Stories flow from his mouth. He jokes, yet the lines on his face tell of wisdom—wisdom to be regarded and respected. Crowds are drawn to him. Similar to a child’s blanket, he gives comfort, security, and joy to the people he embraces.


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