I stood before it, stone, yet alive. How could marble weep, and how could I not? The Pietà, her silent sorrow, her eternal grief, carved not just into the marble but into my very soul. I was a witness to a mother's heartbreak, a love so vast it seemed to transcend the cold touch of death. 

In her arms lay the weight of the world, her son, broken, lifeless, and yet held with the tenderness of a lullaby. The folds of her robe, the softness of her touch, the lines of her face, all spoke of a pain too deep for words. And in that moment, I felt it, too. Not as a distant observer, but as one who knows the ache of loss, the yearning to hold what is gone. 

She is every mother who has cradled a lost child, every human who has borne the unbearable. And I, standing there, breath caught, heart undone, became a part of her grief, her love, her unending vigil. Tears came, unbidden, for the beauty and the sorrow that had no voice but spoke so clearly. 

The Pietà is not just stone. It is the very essence of human fra…

A nerdy birdy interested in clouds and yellow flowers.

How powerful is a mother who witnesses the torture and death of her son? The child is always a child in his mother's arms, and although he carries the pain in his arms, he actually witnesses his freedom. Maybe I was being a little silly. 🤢