Statue in the Plaza

My apartment building is tall and square with bright colors decorating the walls in a tasteful kaleidoscope. Reaching to every corner they paint shadows with baby blues, soft yellows and vibrant oranges. Except the Plaza.

At the top most floor I sit at a window looking down into the square of space devoid of color. The white stone plaza where the roommates in 304B berate each other on their way to classes. Their voices clutching the edge of my window and lingering there for a few minutes, even after the boys are gone.

I see Mr.Antonio wipe away the cigarette buds from, self proclaimed, Mademoiselle Clarice. We all know to wait for the screaming match to last over an hour before anyone calls the landlord.

Of all the firecracker smoke, and building cookouts wafting over the air from that window. Of screaming, screeching, playing, singing. Toni’s piano lessons drift the highest of all. With all this life pressing at the borders of my window frame it is a statue standing with bent neck over a fountain that I notice everyday.

Her hair falls in soft marble over her shoulders hiding her face from floors three and four. Just the hint of a smooth rounded cheek peeks in view, glinting often in the sun. From the fifth floor apartments 50 through 60 you can see the back of her neck carved in a strengthened bow to let her look down into the water there.

Her gown placed in perfect motion, blown across her legs following the wind’s command. The only thing covering her is the thin weaving fabric, her shoes long tossed away, no jewelry of lovers gracing her skin of stone. Each fold of fabric wells of shadow no matter where the sun falls.

The time it took to smooth her chin jutting out in defiance of the ground. Folding stone into sweet upturned lips a whisper of a secret trapped beneath. I can see the apple of her cheeks resting on either side of her button nose, all of it in perfect view, perfect light.

She stands so tall shoulders straight against the sun in every instance perfect, but one.

I wonder, did her eyes always look so heavy? Was the artist’s hands cold and jerky when he carved the lines of her pupils? That now as the sun plays with the blushing angles of her body, leaves a shadow below brow.

Statues come in all shapes and sizes, Angels with tiny cherubs holding their clothes aloft. Warriors leaning on sword or axe, as hands reach out to praise them. Shadowed images of people long gone standing shoulder to stiff shoulder with broad smiles resting on elegant faces.

She holds on alone. None stand to help shoulder her weight. Even as the building was formed the floors that could look so clearly on that soft face, is an arch. A decorative piece not home or pathway to gaze out at her with. So instead she watches below her.

One of her bare feet pointing down to the water. Straight like an arrow taking aim at its prey. All she wants to do is step down off that stage and crumple into the cold rushing fountain, letting droplets camouflage the tears on her face. Her shoulders laid bare to my eyes curling in on herself.

I see everyone walk by in the plaza to smile softly and move on with their day as her gown grows greener. Worrying about the ash and paper left at her feet by neighbors they just can’t get along with. While there's a long widening crack traveling over her chest and between her clamped hands, so not even they are touching anymore. In the crevasse of her elbow she holds tight to the pigeon that made it’s nest there. Three generations of eggs she sees, each one flies off over the roof out of sight.

She watches her tennants rush by in whirlwinds of life, furry, and love. They glance at her feet and the water in smiling contemplation. I see them make wishes to her, heads bowed to mirror her own. See them playing along the edge of her water and cooling off in her shade.

As I look down into the plaza, none look up into her face. I look down into the stone and sunlight and see the life they taunt her with. So sure that she will always be standing there smiling that secret smile at them. I watch down into the plaza as the cracks and mold grow deeper over her perfect solitary form.