The 140 saints, cast in stone and perched atop the wrapping colonnade, add religious heft, while the developmentally delayed young girl in a wheelchair and the middle-aged blind man standing across the pool add humanity.
It’s 4:45 a.m. on Sunday, eleven days after my Parkinson's diagnosis at the age of 48. I awake to the sound of the door lock’s firm click as Tracey leaves our hotel room on Manhattan’s Upper West Side.
