Fingerprints of a Liftime

Not all fingerprints are visible.

Not the kind children leave on freshly painted doors, soft smudges that fade with a single wipe. No, the fingerprints I speak of are different—these are the ones time cannot erase. These fingerprints are like carvings etched into the soul of a place, a person, a memory.

They’re like the doors I once photographed walking the quiet, weathered streets of Rome—majestic, worn, and full of unspoken stories. Some of those doors bore carvings so intricate, so enduring, they became more than decoration. They became history. They became the city.

And Rome, she teaches you something about memory. About legacy. About the sacred essence of things that are built to last.

As I sit in the stillness, I think about those doors—and the fingerprints left on my own life. The kind that don’t fade, the kind that echo in silence.

Some people come into your life like Rome. They don’t ask to be remembered. They just are. Their presence leaves something in you that time can’t erase. They make you listen differently, breathe deeper, feel wider. And you realize—this wasn’t just a chapter. This was architecture.

This kind of imprint, like Rome, carves itself into the very center of your being.

And when you pause long enough, look up and all around, you see that it has become a part of you—holy, permanent, and powerful.

Forever imprinted.