The Echo of Stone

The smell of damp earth always brings me back to the underside of things. It is a heavy, metallic scent, like cold iron pressed against the tongue. When I walk through a narrow passage, I feel the air change—it grows thick and still, pressing against my skin like a damp wool blanket. There is a specific vibration in these places, a low hum that travels up through the soles of my feet, reminding me that the ground is not just a surface, but a deep, hollow throat. We are always moving through tunnels, whether they are made of brick or the quiet, cavernous spaces between people. We carry the weight of the ceiling on our shoulders, bracing ourselves against the inevitable closing in. Does the stone remember the hands that laid it, or does it only know the silence of the footsteps that pass through and vanish? What remains of us when the echo finally dies against the wall?

Christopher Utano has captured this feeling in his image titled Central Park Tunnel. The way the light pulls the eye forward makes me want to step into that cool, silent air myself. Can you hear the sound of your own breath bouncing off those bricks?