Crossing Over

The northern train whistle slices through the frosted night. It's cold for May, making the starry night punctuate the echoing metal on metal. Sound seems closer in the stillness. The covert message of only passing through, with a distant purpose propulsion plays on my mind as I pack last minute items. Leaving the sanctuary of domicile, the image of my daughter waving is emblazoned on my mind. Hours, airports, altitude, and crowds later we absorb another culture. Seagulls give shape to the unseen wind, and roses out do one another in profusion, while the cacophony of urban realities speaks for itself. Millions flow around us attending to daily life set in age-old traditions, which, only a continent away, would turn heads.

Like selective slow motion in modern ads, individuals catch my focus and, for a second, I envision their lives. The little boy decked out in a white outfit, complete with crown and plumage, en-route to his circumcision, surrounded by doting family. The woman enveloped in a black sheet fighting the wind to keep up with her modern husband. The gypsy musicians effortlessly singing ballads in the shade of ancient trees. The modern, elaborate, expansive mosque built on the rubble of a destroyed church. The fruit merchant pushing his carefully balanced handcart of fresh cherries and bright green plums in vibrant, contrast.

A wedding procession passes, horns blazing. An old man with hot bread from the bakery under his arm stops to watch them, memories etched on his face. Two teens twitter nearby. A mother stops beating the rug on the balcony for but a moment. Children jump up and down on the sidewalk. I smile at two little girls. They smile back, showing missing teeth, like my grand kids.

How blessed I am to be a pilgrim! Else how could I cross over into their world?