Little Feet

        I was just another little girl with dirty feet from walking through the streets of cities we visited; all the churches and saints we passed were milestones towards the destination we were trying to reach. My feet, I noticed, were small--like that of a child--and it seemed as though I never really grew since the years that passed. But now they were sore and bruised and dirty from all the walking I had to do as I contemplated my life; a meditation of all that I had and all that I lost.
       I was visiting places other girls my age could only dream of seeing. Villages and cities in Spain. Stopping in Monaco (Monte-Carlo). Lourdes in France. Milan, Turin, Venice, the Vatican City, Bologna, and Rome-- all in Italy. And I was detached from it all. Part apathetic, part homesick, part bitter, and a great portion of me hardly wanting to be there, but still a bit excited over everything new to me. 
       I was overwhelmed, overlooked, and exhausted every day; unsure of what it was that I was doing on this pilgrimage: a girl, not even sure in her faith, roaming the streets of each foreign town we stopped at. There was too much heat, and my stupid little, filthy, tired feet couldn't seem to take another step and simply sat me down to break apart and cry.
       So I cried... And cried. Almost each and every day, I cried and cried and cried until I ran out of tears and things to cry about. So much so that I was forced to look at myself for all that I was, all that I am, and all I could amount to, accept it, and then take that and face reality. Suddenly, I had nothing left to cry about, nor did I want to. I woke up, stood up, and got back on my feet and walked away.

[older writing from years ago]

- La Anonyme