Memory

I remember the first time I visited Jerusalem.

We entered via the Jaffa gate, my brother and me.

He had some business related to psychology, I was just tagging-along.

Eged bus, then foot.

The spices more a phenomenon than the last time I went.

Zaatar. Which is hyssop sprinkled on just-cooked bread.

At the time I had no sense of the past or the future, I merely existed within a bubble of Greek and Ethiopian Orthodoxy, Via Dolorosa and the Western Wall. I only visited the Dome of the Rock later.

Cold, yellow stone and smooth cobbles.

Just-slaughtered chickens hanging in the early morning.

Dust and smoke and antiquity.