It stands in front of you. It's so
tall. And so thin. Hesitantly thin, stage-prop thin. You think, I
could be the one to push it over, I could take this wall down with
one good shove. Heat blooms in your chest, your cheeks, smelling of
raw carrot. But it looms over you -- The Wall -- stormclouds with
silvery barbed-wire lining, and even though it is fragile and
swaying, it's nailbed is under your feet. It pulls you into its
shadow with a roar nearly subsonic and tangy with rust. You think
about it holding in decades, holding back hope, holding down the city
in the unstretching tug of a long scar down your back.
The Wall swells before you, absorbing
light and doubt. The dignity of the Wall rears over you, equal parts
stubborn pride and clear glaring humility, dense as wool felt and
welcoming. The Wall says, You have pushed me over hundreds of times,
and I hope you will destroy me hundreds more times, everywhere you
want to grow. And then it shows you how. The Wall fluffs out its
feathers, a million billowing layers of gilt and angst, the million
prayers and curses rubbed onto its surface. The color rises, fills
your vision as a holy mountain, coats your tongue with opals and
justice. Nettle infusion and the heat off birthday candles. A winged
kitten, all downy fur and needle claws and wide skylight eyes, begins
raging and playing in your chest. You know you will say no untrue
thing the rest of the day. You know you are in the right place.
