The places where I grew up - cobblestones streets and marble mosaic floors, waiting rooms and old houses, walls with pictures names and dates of the once-living, now deceased.
Along the way, I was writing and hiding. I was contemplating and praying, trying to get to the bottom of my heart - where true penance is laid.
Humbly, I am walking through these little towns again. Baring my dearest memories, sorrow becomes a silent poem. And there is joy and gratitude and there are many steps yet to be made. My walls, my stones, my ruins, my structures - old and new - everything is there for me to comprehend. As it is the first time I am in this waiting room, waiting for the tiny van with all the rest of us.
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