Laurie Levy

I was on a press trip in 1992, standing on a pier in Genoa, Italy,  staring into the navy blue sea, lightheaded because I was alone, children at colleges, husband lost in the mists of almost forgotten rupture (not to be confused with rapture). The sun on the water made me feel coddled, exquisitely warm; I basked in feeling at home when I was thousands of miles from Chicago.

The magazine that had sent me would want to know what I saw and that was an aged statue of Columbus, the native son, and whether the towering imposing structure on the shore was bronze or cement or gold, for that matter, I couldn’t say then and can’t remember now. Just that it seemed so solid and eternal I could see how it had lasted the years since it had been created to commemorate that daring sail across the dark water in 1492.  And facing that massive statue, I remember a castle-like structure with a dining hall where the press representatives from around the world were welcomed to Liguria, drinking wine the color of the deepening sunset, and each of us receiving a gift:  a small framed image of a tiny silver ship mounted on blue velvet, and in print below the glass was engraved, “Christoforo Columbo, 1492 -1992.”

I kept the framed silver shape of the ancient ship on one of my bookshelves through the years, and yesterday upon closer inspection found that behind the glass the little ship had fallen to the base of the frame. Not so much that it had sunk, but traveled. I stood facing the wall where my framed ship was nailed and thought of the dark water and the Italian press trip party and relived that lovely day when the light hit the sea and the statue stood invincible, where I received a gift I treasured, and the captain and his ships were not yet forgotten.