Death is here. I'm standing on it. On etchings of family threads, unraveled in different ways but all by the same hand. Who lit that candle? Who carved the first stone? Can I step on the cracks between the tombs?
Behind me, the crypt is wrapped in scaffolding. There's a woman inside with gloves, A Friend of Florence, washing the marble clean. And then like a trumpet, they charge -- the footsteps from above, laughter in a dozen octaves and a wave of tiny feet rush down the stairs.