The Pilgrimage of Children

The Pilgrimage of Children

My hand runs along the cool plaster wall as if picketing a fence, but my fingers find only the smooth curves of this ancient structure. Its coarse, sandpapery texture just begs to be touched. It sighs and breathes, a living thing, but very dead. It’s like it knows I’m here again, and thankful that I am. But its just a wall I remind myself, and nothing compared to where we’re heading. Still, maybe the life on the other side lends some of its liveliness to this mud and stone. Maybe it knows I’ve come again, maybe it’s beckoning me further still.
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