Dwarfed, I sit next to one of sixteen stone war scenes dwarfed by soldiers who kneel under hammers and sickles and bow, dwarfed by a savior, a small child hangs limp in one arm and a benevolent sword from the hand of the other. Though I can’t see her, I feel the presence of a worried mother, her hand clutching the seam of her shawl and her braided crown sunken in solace.
The silence is not jarring as I had expected, but soothing. Only traces of the violent city sounds remain, starved after their long journey on the back of the wind. The stark symmetry is the only source of discomfort. I can’t look at any one thing without finding its unwelcome reflection somewhere else. All is measured, calculated, congruent. Only the mother, the savior, and the child are unique. They are not, but where are their reflections? If the child were to glance into a mirror and see everyone, if he were to notice himself and see me, what would the savior see? Would she see the earth, or God?