Salt 12

I’ve heard that others are made of water, it keeps us elastic and yearning. When you are made mostly of something, you celebrate when you see it fall from the sky or rush over enormous expanses. You run to it when you see it snaking it’s way through a valley or pooling in the high mountain spaces.

Yes

if you are made mostly of water — it is to water that you return.

I, however, am salt. I was made this way when I looked backwards to my homeland. Now I stand staring forever backward. An ancient pillar to a city that I loved. Still here, though the country is long destroyed. Here I have stood. Here I will stand. When the water comes from the clouds I flavor their purity and then taste the tears that trickle into my mouth. The rain has washed its own path — now engraned like a tattoo — and each drop follows the other past my surprised dropped lips. While others taste the springtime, I taste the salted sins of my homeland. If I could weep my own fresh tears, I would. But I do not produce water like the others long dead. No. Instead I turn the fresh morning dew, the first spring rain, the signs of celebration and survival of Gethsemane into tears. I weep at every drop. I wonder, did my countrymen even know I looked back to them?

I would not look again.

 

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