Annibale Carracci - Pietà with Saint Francis and Saint Mary Magdalene

I was 25 on vacation in romantic Paris with my husband, Joey of 5 years. We were at the Louvre and had just finished admiring the Mona Lisa. We wanted to explore more, so we headed back into the Grande Galerie, which is this massively long hallway filled with paintings from ceiling to floor.

While exploring the gallery, my eyes locked with a painting by Annibale Carracci entitled Pietà with Saint Francis and Saint Mary Magdalene. It portrays Mary holding Christ’s body as Saint Francis and Saint Mary Magdalene look on in mourning. There is also a baby, under Christ’s arm, cuddled to his body and a separate cherub leaning towards Christ’s calves. Both baby and cherub are pointing to the holes where Christ had been nailed to the cross.

Moments after seeing the baby and cherub, I began to weep. Their facial expressions - tearful, confused, and devastated - caused a distant memory to resurface.

It was July 13, 1992. My 11 year old body had awoken from a deep slumber around 4 am after hearing people scuffling about the house. I saw flashing lights of an ambulance zipping around my bedroom walls. Hearing my mom’s frantic voice down the hallway, I jumped out of bed, opened my bedroom door, and saw a young man, in his early 20s, wearing a medic’s uniform. He had a mix of horror and determination on his face as he stood over my dad’s sleeping, peaceful body. I slowly walked passed eyes wide opened, watching as the medic checked his vitals. Another medic saw me and ran to close the bedroom door.

What seemed like hours, lasted only a few minutes when one by one, my sister and two brothers joined my mom and I in the living room. We quickly discovered dad hadn’t woken up when his alarm clock rang and my mom couldn’t wake him up.

Bits and pieces of this experience are blurred now, but I remember my brothers and sisters sitting around the kitchen table in silence while my mom awaited news from the medics. Our neighbor Jackie, a nurse at the local hospital came into the kitchen and broke the news. Our father, my mom’s husband, had passed away. My mom, brothers, and sister started crying, while I, not fully understanding, put my head down on the kitchen table and pretended to cry.

Throughout the day, aunts, uncles, and neighbors came over, many crying – many trying to stay strong. Silence took over the house that day as people took to their corners and chairs mourning over my father. Not understanding, I focused all of my energy on being a good girl and staying out of everyone’s way. I even looked the part of a mourning child, by appearing sad and pretending to cry every so often. But, needless to say, not a single tear had rolled down my cheeks.

That night after everyone had left; my 11 year old body finally understood what everyone else already knew. My dad, who looked so peaceful lying in bed as a medic tried to revive him, had passed away. I couldn’t even give him a kiss goodnight. Suddenly my pretend tears and my forced looks of sadness from the long day had turned into uncontrollable hysterics that no motherly, brotherly, or sisterly love could comfort. As my mom sat there hugging me, consoling me, and wiping the tears off my cheeks, I wept for my father and for myself.

After my father’s funeral, I suffered from post traumatic stress causing me to block out 11 years of memories with my father, including his appearance. I managed to hold on to a few memories – the one of his peaceful body lying in bed, the funeral, and of our last kiss goodnight just a few hours before he died.

Being in Paris, at the Louvre and coming in contact with a childhood tragedy was not something I had anticipated while on vacation. But, it was this baby and cherub’s facial expressions who mourned over Christ that had stirred up my own pain. I understood their sadness, confusion, and anger. I had lived through it. I wept for them in front of this painting.

It was an unexpected moment, in an unexpected city that evoked this childhood memory. And shortly thereafter, as the months rolled by, I was blessed to finally have those 11 years of memories come back to me. For some reason, weeping in front of this painting brought me the closure I’d needed.  It had even helped a haunting memory of a last kiss goodnight turn into a cherished memory.

*If you’re heading to the Louvre and would like to see this painting, it’s located in the Room 12 of the Grande Galerie on the first floor of the Denon Wing.