Things we Carry
A small child held tight onto a wooden doll, the clothes tattered and torn and the shined wood scratched and cracked. The child cared not that their doll was so worn out, so used and so tired. He held onto it with a small fist as he walked through the moonlit trees; the sky darkened and not a star in sight. He walked, the moon his only light source, and came upon a tree. Many wooden dolls lay scattered, placed into the roots and branches; an offering. Tiny feet crunched on hard soil before bruised knees bent to kneel, a silent prayer uttered in foreign tongue. And the doll was set among the others with a quiet farewell before the child stood once more to leave.
