When I was planning my trip to Italy, I daydreamed about falling for an Italian, so this should be no surprise. However, I hadn’t expected him to be over five hundred years old. I also hadn’t expected to cry. Yet here come the tears, blurring my vision as I look up at him.

David.

The veins in his hand pulse with tension. I can almost feel him breathe, can almost see the blood orchestrating the life under his skin of cold, hard marble as he prepares to face his much stronger foe. I’ve heard his expression described as determined, but as his gaze bores into me now, it seems more… unsure, self-conscious.

Same, babe. Same.

I can’t believe I almost skipped coming to the Accademia Gallery where Michelangelo’s David stands ready to sweep unsuspecting tourists off their feet.

I’ve seen enough naked male bodies (only one and a half up close and personal, but who’s counting) to realize how incredibly lifelike he is. Though I haven’t ever seen, uh, anyone uncircumcised, so I can’t comment on that particular bit of artistry. Not that I’m looking.

But the fact that a person could hew this man out of stone absolutely boggles my mind.

My dad often quotes that “Man was created in the image of God.” Having a Jewish father, an agnostic mother, and a Catholic grandfather, I’ve always found the concept of “god” to be pretty abstract. But for the first time, I maybe understand what that quote means. The ability to create something as beautiful as David, to craft flesh and bone from mere marble, is surely some kind of divinity.

But this realization of the heights of human potential kinda sucks.

Because how do I use my potential?

This question settles over me, and for a moment I hate myself. For every unfinished painting, every half-written song, every abandoned story. Every attempt that was never quite good enough. Even this trip, which is almost over, and I have yet to accomplish what I was sent to do. I’d come knowing it was a long shot, finding one man in all of Florence, but I’d hoped to finally prove myself to my family. And the door’s about to close on my one and only chance to do so.

I look up at David again; his intense gaze now seems to be one of accusation.

It’s a familiar feeling. Growing up as the least talented member in a family of artists and scholars, I’m accustomed to being judged. I know I have talents, but they often feel more like expectations.

And I always fall short.