Wailing at the Walls

They took Jesus down from the cross over here. Under this stone is where they washed the blood from his wounds. People are crying. Here’s where his cross stood. People are crying. This is where the first Tower of David stood. It was demolished. People are crying. Wailing. Over there’s where Mohammed ascended to heaven. I’m sure they’re crying too. I feel like crying. People come from all over the world to moan and wail over a pile of stones, over a hole in the floor; for the past. Meanwhile, people still die for these memories, these ashes. Surely somewhere a clean Jesus or a heaven-bound Mohammed are crying too, looking down through telescopes-for-a-quarter from on high, looking down at the antswarms around the holy sites, shouting Look up, Look around, Look forward, not back, and for God’s sake forgive each other for once.
There’s a lot to cry about around here. And everybody tends to look the same when they cry. I wish they’d realize that.

I put a little letter in the wailing wall too. While people wailed. Swayed and nodded at the stones. Most the big crevices were over-flowing. Found a little nub emerging from the smooth stone, tucked my note in its tooth.