THE VOICE OF STONES

We walk along a busy street; cars whiz past us, making sounds like brushing a buzzing fly away from your ear. Buzz, buzz, buzz! We ignore them, generating our own excited chatter to cover up the noise of the city. Standing quietly inside churches for long periods of time can have that effect; voices hate to be silenced. The church is behind us. We release our poor, neglected voices into the buzzing Roman air. They complain, strained from their temporary imprisonment. A few girls huddle together and make weekend plans while walking; others giggle while sharing anecdotes.

Several students wonder aloud, asking each other where Shawn might be leading us today. A church, perhaps? Maybe a park? Questions fade as conversations weave through different topics. I ask Mindy if she wants to return to the Chiesa di San Francesco a Ripa with me after this activity, to better scrutinize the artwork in the church. She agrees. I smile and we continue walking.

A few students at the front of the group suddenly slow down; the rest of us match their pace to avoid a collision. I glance ahead in search of the source to the commotion. The only visible hints are glimpses of gold and red, which glint in the pounding sunlight. Eventually, our group comes to a complete stop. We spread out along the sidewalk. As the people blocking my view move to either side, I discover the purpose to our visit. The entire wall is lined with plaques of all sorts and sizes. Some look like cheap Chinese restaurant signs, with their attention-hungry red lettering against gold backgrounds. Others look like garden signs, with elegant, vibrantly colored flowers painted around the edges and black, handwritten calligraphy in the center. My eye scans the wall slowly. The plaques all blur together, but one stands out. It isn’t brightly colored or intricately designed. It is a simple marble rectangle, with Times New Roman lettering engraved perfectly into its surface.

In the back corner of my mind, I hear a voice. Everything else is muted. The blurry outline of a figure appears before my eyes. I am entranced; no one else seems to have noticed. Slowly, the silhouette comes into focus. It is a woman. Though young, she looks worn and ragged everywhere but her eyes; they shine through with such fierceness and intensity that I am taken aback. She stares directly at me and begins to speak.

“P. G. R.
F. G. GELA”

I was born Felicita Giudice, named for and destined to have a life of happiness. My parents, three brothers and I lived in Gela, an island town on Sicily. My father was an engraver; he usually carved gravestones. My mother stayed home to take care of us. Every day, my brothers and I would run to the shore and race one another to find the most perfectly preserved seashell, the most beautiful starfish, or even the shiniest pebble. At the end of the day, we would giggle together as we reconvened, comparing our discoveries and electing a winner. I usually won.

One day, as we were out collecting seashells, a heavy wind began blowing through Gela. Every islander knew the sign of a storm when they saw one. Luckily, I had not ventured far from town. As I ran home, a light rain began to fall. When I arrived, my parents hugged me tightly. We waited for my brothers to get home. The wind was getting stronger, the raindrops harder. Minutes later, my two oldest brothers found their way home. Relieved, I gave each one a huge hug. The five of us huddled together in the shelter, waiting for Francesco, our youngest brother. Time dragged by; minutes felt like hours as we stood together. Still, we waited. Finally, when none of us could bear it any longer, my father said he was going out to look for Francesco. We were all in tears; we knew that going out into the storm now meant slim survival chances. I almost begged him not to go, but then I thought of Francesco out alone, wandering in the violent storm. I looked up at my father, who reassured us that he would be back shortly. He nodded at me and left. That was the last time we ever saw him.

The next morning, we carefully ventured out into the devastation. My mother found Francesco huddled under the shelter of a fallen tree. Hugging him tightly, she carried my little brother home. Most of our neighbors were out searching for loved ones as well; we all helped each other. We searched for my father, but there was still no sign of him. While searching along the shore, I stopped to look out at the water, where he must have been taken. I could hardly believe how calm the sea was; her temper tantrum was over, and she slept. Falling on my knees in tears, I asked her how she could be so cruel, how she could tear my family apart, how she could take my kindhearted father, when there were so many others who so little deserved to live. She stared back coldly and selfishly; she was wordless and shameless. The Sea always gets what she wants.
We continued searching for a week, but it was futile. My mother could not stop sobbing and Francesco had fallen ill. He was feverish and delirious at times; at least it seemed so. We asked him questions, but he had not spoken a word since we found him. Meanwhile, my father’s engraving business fell into neglect. My oldest brother blamed himself; my father had always tried to teach him the trade, but my brother was never interested enough. He always came out to play with us instead of learning. Many were lost in the Sea’s fierce storm that day. Their relatives all came to our shop, begging us to engrave the tombstone for a loved one. Sadly, we turned them away. I had watched my father carve many stones, but I did not feel I could do justice to those who were lost in the storm.

We tried to nurse Francesco back to health, but his condition continued to deteriorate. The island hospitals were all busy with survivors of the storm; none of the hospital staff had the time or expertise to help Francesco. One kind nurse told us that my little brother’s voice suffered from trauma, and that we should seek help in Rome. We no longer had a reason to stay on the island, so we took her advice. We packed up all of our belongings, sold the shop to a visiting entrepreneur, and boarded a ship to mainland Italy.

We arrived on the shores and found our way to Rome. Francesco’s health was getting worse. One day, he fell into a deep sleep and we couldn’t wake him. Panicked, we rushed him to a Roman hospital. They told us he was in a coma and it was up to God to save him now. I felt like I would never stop crying, but our family had to be fed. My oldest brother and I went out searching for jobs; my brother apprenticed for a shoemaker, while I ended up working in a small jewelry shop.

Every Sunday, we attended mass at la Chiesa di San Francesco a Ripa. It was named after St. Francis, my brother Francesco’s patron saint. After every service, I stayed longer to pray for Francesco to get better. I prayed to the Virgin Mary, hoping she might understand the love for a young son. She had the power to plea for Francesco’s life on my family’s behalf. This I knew, and this I trusted in.

Every year, on Francesco’s birthday, we all went out and bought him gifts. We left them around his bedside, ready for when he awoke. Every night, I kneeled beside my little brother’s bed and prayed for him. Three years passed this way. My brothers began to despair; they worked more and visited less. Still, I continued to visit Francesco nightly to pray for him. I knew Mary would not abandon us, not with frail little Francesco still in need of so much help.

One Sunday, a month before Francesco’s eighth birthday, I finished praying for my little brother’s health and stood up from the church pew. I picked up my bag and headed toward the door. Halfway through the aisle, I was stopped by a voice.

“Felicita.” I turned. It was the resident priest. I could not remember a time when I had been in the church without him there.

“Yes, Father?”

“Do not despair. Your prayers will be answered.” He smiled discreetly and nodded before turning back around. A warm, comforting breeze washed through my mortal body, and I knew that he was right. Francesco would be okay.

Two weeks later, I went to visit Francesco as usual. I brought him flowers; his room needed more life. I gave him a light kiss on the forehead before turning around to set the vibrant bouquet on the windowsill. Just as the priest had beckoned me with my back turned, another voice called my name.

“Felicita?” The voice was raspy, though unmistakably young; years of disuse had left a scorched throat. Still, it was recognizeable.

“Francesco?” I wanted to wrap my arms around him in a gigantic, smothering hug, but years of tiptoeing around my frail brother warned me otherwise. Cautiously, I approached him. No, that voice couldn’t be real. My Francesco, awake? But he was! I knew I should run to find my other brothers and my mother, but I was selfish in my elation. I wanted a few more endless minutes with Francesco. He smiled weakly at me, and I smiled back. “Wait here,” I whispered guiltily, and dashed off to collect my family for the joyous reunion.

When Francesco was well again, we spent all of our evenings perfecting engraving together, in honor of our father. Proudly, Francesco announced that he would carry on the Giudice engraving business when he was older. My mother was so elated that she released a river of tears. That night, Francesco and I began carving our father’s tombstone, for when we returned to Gela.

A year later, we came across a beautiful, clean slab of marble. It was too clean, too perfect for any mortal. I told Francesco of a beautiful wall of prayer stones I had seen on my daily walk to la Chiesa di San Francesco a Ripa during the time that he had been sick. We still went to the church for Sunday mass; he told me he remembered the street altar. Right then, we knew what our next engraving would be.

We spent the next month working on the perfect gift to the Virgin. We wanted nothing more than to show her gratitude for answering our prayers. We wanted something simple — something that would show our thanks modestly, for she was never immodest. So we settled upon P. G. R. Per Grazia Ricevuta: For Your Consideration. And to sign our piece: F. G. Gela: a thank you from Felicita Giudice of Gela, but also for her beloved little brother, Francesco Giudice.


Felicita closes her brilliant eyes, draws her hood up, and begins to fade. Her blurry outline becomes a part of the wall; she vanishes into the city air. I am immobilized by her visit. My mind has too much to process; it cannot deal with mundane activities like movement. Around me, the chatter of my classmates grows louder, juxtaposed against the hum of the cars. The brightness of the Roman sun beats back into focus. Felicita is gone, but the plaque, the imprint of her life, remains on the wall. Here on this wall, hers is just one voice among many.