Cold War

The landscape of my faith is pocked and scarred. I’m not the victim of some Holy War, though. This isn’t no scorched earth. No, this is just weather. Erosion, corrosion, wind and rain. Life. Sure, I dodged friendly fire, but I’m not one to turn on my sister. Sure, I wandered through wide canyons of doubt, dipped my toe in the river of betrayal, raged at a quiet sky, but I’m not one to leave the promised land. Earthquakes don’t move me. Lightening won’t strike me down. I will go the way of the dust. Slowly. Spreading myself everywhere. Clinging to the sole of your shoe. You will watch me disappear, but you won’t remember the moment it happened.

I walked the garden, a child.  I walked the grove, a child still. I walked the desert for seven years to lose it all and I walked the water for seven more trying to bring it all back. I pulled a handcart alongside the trail of my mothers but their road was no longer mine. The map was unreadable. Egyptian hieroglyph. I lost my father and my mother and my brother and my friend.

I still live here. Estranged in a stranger land. I am still holding it together like Lot’s wife in reverse. At least I belong to somebody.

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