There is a bench 26 miles away where I once heard a confession. Not like a priest. Like from one human to another. From one wounded. Near where the river flows backwards in the spring, if you know the spot.
A path I once trod took me to 1852, or so it seemed. The wounded heart was there too.
Days later, at a wood, I found a path. and a heart. and 6 tears.
When I was two years old I knew how to fly. A little, just around my room. A tale that only grandchildren believe. When you find the wardrobe you will find my little footprints gathering dust/on the top/where I would rest from flight. This was in the days before color, when the world was wise and black and white and gray.
I hold this beating thing. Am I the healer or the healed? There is a breeze now and the fog in my head is lifting. This heart. It prays with me my oldest prayer, "Lord, help me to be a good boy".
Across the road, around the bend of the river, over there at the foot of that cross, there is the heart.
Strong, beautiful, sorrowful. Made for this. Made to carry this load. Made to walk with hidden wounds yet growing joy. Drums beat and horse hoofs thunder like the beat of that heart. The ancient heart of Esther. And the old question is asked again. "Have you not come to the kingdom for such a time as this?" Indeed. At the foot of the cross.
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