The Beautiful Thorn

Today I found a Peruvian thorn in my scarf.

Driving down 316 into Athens, passing familiar sights on the way to Walmart, I fingered the blue and brow-striped cloth wrapped around my neck for warmth on the chilly Winter day. I started a little as something stabed into my finger.

I looked down and saw Peru. My eyes registered memories instead of the actual object sticking through the end of the scarf. I felt very little pain from this protruding object; instead, happiness engulfs me as my lids shut and I remembered:

Trudging through the plants, I realize the thorns cover my cltohes, embedded into the threads that interwine. I try to pick them out, but no use. My failed attempt doesn't phase me in the midst of such beauty.

I feel the wind in my hair as I climb up enormous hills in Tinajani, sharp, jagged rocks flanking my sides; behind me, a green valley with a river cutting through tall grasses. Ahead, clear blue skies, the sun casting shadows on the images carved into the rocks by the hand of God. Dancing.

I hear the brush underfoot as I trample through plants with unknown names. I hear other footsteps, but am wrapped up in my reverie. I pick tiny flowers to hold onto throughout the trip. No reason or rhyme to this. Holding them lightly so as not to crush them, I stand in silence among years of ancient story, known only to the natural environment in which I find myself. And of course, to the Creator.

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The Walmart parking lot is full of money, old and new. I enter thrhough the automatic doors, walk straight to my destination: The photo center.

I pay for the 33 prints of Peru. I smile as I open them up and touch my friends--some familliar, some strangers. I gaze around the store aimlessly. My steps lead me swiftly out of corporate hell.

I clutch the paper memories, climb into the car, find the thorn in my scarf, and smile in the silence.