Seashell
by Anne Born
I am a pilgrim.
I choose
To leave a predictable life,
To carry so little,
To walk for days and days,
To pray in the presence of a saint
In a sacred space.
The symbol of this pilgrim
Is not a full dinner served on a bountiful table.
Or all those photos of Sunday-best clothed cousins in front,
Proud grown ups in the back.
It’s a seashell.
On a fraying bit of rope.
To carry while I walk,
To be my calling card,
To take the place of my past,
My name,
My provenance —
To help write my future.
I bought it years ago
In a tiny mountain town in France
Before beginning
And I’ve carried it across Spain
For years since.
It’s cracked a little from the time it fell
And someone caring came up to me running,
Did you drop this? I think…
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