The Blue Tit

By Francesco Sarti

FIRST PLACE in March Competition

I never thought of grief, or pain, as moving things.

Mum died, and I ran away, all the way to Rome, and now tides of pain fill me up from my sprained ankle, just like the memory of her.

Paolo carries me to a bench between two pizzerias. I burn the back of my thighs on it, but I can’t show it, not if I want him to ask to come up to my apartment tonight. The pain comes and goes; it comes and goes as I curse my heels and the pebbled roads and my miniskirt and my desire to look desirable.

This city is pure heat. The stones, the monuments, the walls are frying pans; the air is a bath, and my swelling ankle sends heatwaves inside my body. The pain comes and goes, but the heat stays, and I want to sweat it out from my hair and makeup, drowning in the smell of cooking oil.

In the liminal space between the pizzerias there’s a relief-sculpture; a piece of street-art. A face, eyes closed, and a woman’s breast above it. All in blue.

I focus on it to forget the pain, to forget about Mum and her secret memoir of Roman lovers.

Paolo’s checking my foot, more for sexual curiosity than concern, as I wonder why going to such lengths to hide a work of art. A sculpture, a book. Oneself.

‘What’s that?’ I ask.

 ‘Vandalism.’

‘I like it.’

‘We’re 5 minutes from Trastevere, and you like that?’

‘It’s a flying blue tit. A pun.’

He stares at me like a gecko.

‘I love puns. In England, blue tits are—’

‘That’s not art,’ he cuts me off. ‘That is art.’ He points at a freshly cooked pizza margherita.

The blue tit disappears behind us, but I’m happy I found it. It seems to me that hiding, like running away, is just a wish to be discovered.

Judge’s Comments: Very evocative piece, full of beautiful description. The writing flowed. Strong rhythm and structure made it an elegant, compelling read.