Voyeur - Piazza San Pietro

The woman in the green, knee length dress squints up at the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica and back down at her son like she is smelling something unpleasant. She watches him squint an identical squint skyward, then returns to her task of refolding stray tissues and placing them back in her purse. They move from one palm to the other, transforming into perfectly white little squares that will no doubt be instantly ruined once they are dropped back into the bag. It is unclear where they came from to begin with. After she finishes it, she straightens out her son’s hair. The boy escapes this as the line inches forward. His face says that he thinks he is too old for such a gesture. His bright blue pants and neon green “JUST DO IT” t-shirt say different.

His brother looks slightly older than him and much more enthusiastic in a more appropriate white t-shirt and gray pants. This was his choice for a post-graduation trip, not his younger brother’s. The mother, resuming re-folding her tissues, seems to share her youngest son’s temperament of being unsure as to why they are there. She nervously zips and unzips her bag, holding it close to her body and sending rushed looks over her shoulder any time her fellow line mates brush up against her.

The older son has disappeared from view as the line moves forward, but she and her green dress and her youngest son are still there. The youngest starts hopping on his feet like they hurt, and the mother wraps her hand around his shoulders—another gesture he seems to have zero tolerance for. The youngest son bounces over to his brother to escape, and out of sight. Only the mother is in view now. She glances down at her bag, unzipping it to check that its contents are still there one last time, before re-zipping it again. She pulls out a tissue, wipes her nose, and stuffs it in her pocket, neat square demolished.

(Piazza San Pietro, 5/23/19)