The Word

My memory is long. I remember my birth – the cries, the pain, the suffering, becoming aware of the world around me. I remember a man in a fancy headdress touching me with his cold hands, his eyes full of joy but his voice full of sadness. “Don’t cry,” – he said. – “No matter what happens, you must not cry. I forbid you to cry.” He stroked me gently for what seemed like an eternity and then added: “Because you now carry the weight of the world. I am so, so sorry.”

My memory is long. I remember feeling whole suddenly, as the last stone was put in. I remember being tall and big and strong, remember looking at the tiny people all around me. There were so many. I don’t remember an of them. But I remember I remember her, a young girl, no more than twelve or thirteen, coming out of the gate with an older man holding her arm. With her other arm she touched me, she looked up at me and asked: “Why did my parents have to die?”

My memory is long. I remember legions marching, polished bronze burning with the sun. I remember torch flames being torn apart by the wind, the crowd crying “Crucify him! Crucify him!” I remember the man in shining armor and blood red cloak clenching his jaw and sighing heavily - and I remember feeling the weight of that sigh pushing down on me, crushing every piece of me, trying to grind me into dust, make me cry. But I remembered the man in the fancy headdress, I knew I should not cry, and so I did not.

My memory is long. I remember a woman stopping by, and putting her hand on me, ever so gently, just brushing me with the tips of her fingers. She looked up at me – and yes, it was her, the girl, no, a woman now, and she asked: “Why did my son have to die?” And I felt like crying, but I was young and strong, and I knew I should not. And so I did not.

My memory is long. I remember the fires, the blades, the cries. I remember death and destruction, bodies falling all around me, and timbers and stones, many of them my own. And I remember feeling her touch again, and hearing her voice: “Why did my people have to die?” And I wanted to cry like women and children hugging the dead, but I was not them and I was still strong and so I did not.

My memory is long. I remember countless men and women, crying, praying, silently hugging me. I remember tiny children’s hands putting rolled-up notes in my cracks. I remember years, decades, centuries passing by, every second, every cry, every prayer, every note adding a little – just a grain or two of dust – to the weight pushing me down. Sometimes I wanted to cry, but I knew I should not and so I did not.

My memory is long. I remember riots and celebrations, screams of horror and cries of joy, summers and winters, rain and sunshine and even occasional snow. I remember smiles and tears, armies and priests, kings and paupers. I remember explosions and fireworks. And I remember her touch, although she no longer comes.

Oh. It is her. I cannot see her eyes – she no longer looks up at me, her back bent and her head covered with a heavy shawl. But I know it is her, I remember her touch, that gentle warmth that makes me want to forget and start anew. Her voice is barely a whisper, but it drowns all the other sounds: “Why do my children have to die?”

And I know I should not cry, but I am no longer young and strong enough, and my memories – there are just too many. And so I do. I cry for all the children, men and women that died. I cry for every hope that got crushed, for every love that was cut short, for every prayer that was not heard and for every tear that dried on my stones. I cry as I come apart at the seams and I cry as I fall and I cry one last time as I take the world with me.

In the beginning, there was a word.