His T-shirt stuck to the inside of his wet armpits. Mostly he was used to this by now, when his uncle played music at the little beach towns in the city, and they made him wear a shirt. But when they became too busy and too comfortable up on this foreign stage, he slipped the soggy cotton off over his head. He knew now they wouldn’t see him for a while. Ahhhh a warm intermittent breeze stilled the drips for a moment. 

His uncle was playing an old song that he remembered from back home as he wandered around the people, sometimes dodging a picture and sometimes finding a new way to sit on the pilings that were in the middle of this courtyard. It was comforting to feel this familiar song deep in his chest while exploring life in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t really know where they were today, nor what day of the week it really was. But he was always happy to be along for the ride. Now that he had just turned twelve, he prided himself on learning from watching people in other cities. But even more so, he didn’t want them to know that he was watching. 

Sometimes, they fascinated him. And sometimes they bored him. Ok, most of the time. They bored him.

He realized a couple of years ago, after his mom was done caring for him, that there was so much time to learn about how other people cared for each other. And while there were many things and relationship that he saw. Nothing was much different. Everyone had the same problems. After years of watching the people drink and sit, clap and sing, dance and kiss. It ended up to be nothing impressive.

Bored.  And now hot. When he sat too long the heat intensified. He needed to do something. Something productive. He would rather be in the middle of some big game or competition, like the hero of a soccer match. As his imagination soared his running pace increased. Scuffed up too-small shoes stumbled over and around the busy courtyard.

He imagined the people and objects in this place as his own challenging obstacle course, jumping over benches and pilings, running circles around the old men sipping Prosecco. He had more to do than just sit around, with this new burst of energy.

The clock tower suddenly rang out a new song. His uncle frantically turned his head from side to side, locking eyes with the other gentlemen on stage. They were in the middle of a song, but those bells were the sign that they had to stop playing. He heard the older man setting up the stage say so. The band couldn’t play between the hours of 8-9pm. But even though the critical moment had startled him, his uncle continued strumming. Nodding his head, he made it clear to his friends to keep playing, just until the end of the song.

Appearing abruptly from behind the corner of a crumbling structure, the old man emerged with a scowl that made it clear their music must stop. His uncle raised his hand to strum the final note. 

And then they all had to wait. Gelato. Coke. A few pieces of bread and a slice of cheese. 

He was bored. Again.

8 o clock. The courtyard steadily became quiet. The music stage was set up adjacent to the basilica in this small portside city. Here, there was a strict rule for no outside music played between the hours of 8-9 pm. Even the boy had learned years ago that this was the prime time for live music. During dinner hour, most people were looking for a reason to sit a little longer and enjoy themselves. This was the reason for his uncle’s music.

But whatever. Rules were rules. 

So, he was bored. Again. This time with no familiar music to run around behind in the background. 

Quiet. Bored. Hot. 

Until 

A voice like a heavenly angel 

More than that

He heard an unfamiliar melody seeping from the old chapel door. The door was cracked open right next to the rotting bench on which he sat.

Gloria…  excelsis Deo…. alleluia…

Wails of a siren’s sigh breathed something into his heart. Not just his chest, where he felt the warm glow of his uncle’s music earlier, but something deeper, aching. Captivated by this refreshing sound, the song was nothing like and everything like the sounds that transported him to places of comfort. This city was completely foreign, and yet this sweet sound soothed him. Quiet and familiar, rich and new. He had to see the source from which this beauty was created.

He crept toward the heavy door which was dripping with years of neglect and moisture and scrubbed in mold. This was nothing strange, in fact completely common for the places he grew up, lived, and frequented. Everything is always very old. 

But this door appeared like it was once very special. Hand-carved, where someone must have put much time and love into this particular door. It looked ornate enough, like the one he remembered from his hometown leading into the local pub. Yet this door had faces and clouds and a story that seemed to be also singing along with the chorus from the other side.

He jumped as high as he could and tagged the nose of a guy centered on the door, who looked like he was floating up to the sky. Then he pivoted and ran as fast as he could to the other side of the space, clearing two unsuspecting pigeons along the way.  His goal was to burn holes on the bottom of his shoes from the sheer speed of his legs.  Fortunately for him, large pebbles cemented into the ground, making that more likely the faster he ran. He felt lightning conjured by every step he took. Then, as fast as he began, he was exhausted. Once again. 

The boy collapsed on a step to the water well, mid-courtyard. Listening. Captivated. As his breathing slowed and the music danced again from the crack in the carved old door to the inside of his chest. Who would make such beautiful sounds. He needed to see.

But it was a church. He knew this was not a place where they went. He often watched the other people with their funny hand signals and their wrappings. He imagined a foreign dimension on the other side of the door, of which he did not know all. Even though these buildings were adjacent to his existence, they were always just right there. In the middle of everything. Just beyond his fingertips. And until now, he never had the curiosity to look inside.

Go in? Stay out? He was probably too young to know the ramifications of any of his decisions. So, his fingers entered first. Creeping around the side of the latch. In the shadow of the church side entrance, his sight adjusted to the dark cool light from the inside. 

A man, no more than ten feet away, pressed two fingers to his forehead, to his chest. He was a strong man, the boy could tell. His white linen shirt stretched a little too tight around his large shoulders. Those same shoulders were rounded over, eyes cast down to the ground. What would cause such man to bring his proud gaze low?

The magical voice from inside intensified. Shrill vibrations into his soul, like deep wound pierced, this sound went far beyond a scrape into his memory. Has this always been here? Has it always been hidden? This fascination and this connection. Behind an ancient brick exterior.

Boldly, the boy stepped inside. His dirty sneaker scuffed the church threshold, which he had never previously broken. He took another step towards the man in the white shirt. Half of his small sweaty body drenched in solace, while the other remained in the stench of the evening courtyard. The boy needed to see what drove the strong man’s eyes. Downward. 

That song. That is what he needed to understand. That song. That which he never heard before, but already knew that he loved. He took another step closer. To learn what the man knew. He needed to see.

Shush, shush. 

No, no, no!

A stout, angry woman shot at him from the other side of the door, wagging a finger.

Shush,  shush.

She violently pointed at his shoes, or maybe his dirty knees? He couldn’t be sure. But she definitely snapped him out of his curiosity when looking into her crazy eyes. In reality, they must have been a simple brown, but her face was pointed so jaggedly, screwing every softness she may have possessed into a hard unflattering angle. Her stare was steaming red. Clearly, she was mad at him for entering. Beating her forearms, crossing them on her own chest, she pointed to his. 

Oh right. He was not wearing a shirt. 

Not like that strong man he saw.

Not like his uncle said he should.

It was hot, and he took off his shirt. 

And apparently, this wasn’t the place for someone like him. 

Embarrassed by the disdain of an old lady, he backed away from the door. He tripped over himself, moving so quickly backward. That moment, he left the sweet siren’s song with absolutely no protest. That was all a stupid idea, anyway.

The boy snapped back to reality in the humid, sunset courtyard. He watched a young man curl his arm around his sweetheart’s waist. Next to him, another old man spit out his half-smoked cigarette. A mid-life Instagram influencer modeled an array of saggy pictures against the shadows under the clocktower. He was hot. Even though the temperature had already dropped 15 degrees. He felt hot, just on his cheeks. They were sunburnt. He reasoned.

This was one learning experience he didn’t ever really remember, but always carried with him. Just when the music from his uncle was overcome by another, more beautiful more pure. He would remember the moment standing naked in the shadow of the church door. He wouldn’t really remember, but was taught swiftly, and certainly. He was not worthy of that pure beautiful gift. The most beautiful song he ever heard was freely pulsing through the air. But had been put away. From him. 

How many shaking fingers, ancient thresholds, and reasonable fears have also worried you into believing? That when we are most naked, the song inside is not for you?