How do you recall the most transformative moments of your life? Are they crisp and clear like a painting by Lorenzo de Credi, or are they fuzzy as if captured by a Venetian’s brush in the soft lines of a dream you can’t quite forget? Usually, I amass major memories as if from my father’s brush: simple, plain, pretty. But I picture that day in the Sistine quite differently. That moment looks like the scene reflected in the mirror hanging on the wall in the back of that famous wedding portrait— you know the painting from up north? (I’ve only seen copies, never remember the title, and always butcher the pronunciation of the painter’s name; how do you say Van Eyck?) The mirror in that painting hangs on a wall behind the couple, and the reflected scene bulges along the arched curve of the looking glass. Like that mirror, my memory of that day in the Sistine is of that massive ceiling bulging out as the pope congratulates Michelangelo front and center, while I’m nothing but a receding speck, standing in some distant doorway.

I didn’t need to see the faces of the cardinals and courtiers and pope to know. I didn’t need to hear their exclamations—“Che grande! Magnifico! Miracoloso!” I didn’t need to feel the rumble of their applause in my chest to see the truth.