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Great Wall

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There’s this great big wall Made of farmer’s bricks.

And it’s thousands of miles long- but I could walk the whole thing, if it meant I could drink hot tea with those two everyday.

There’s this great giant wall made of painful attempts at protection.

And it’s hundreds of feet high- but I could climb the whole thing, if it meant I could hold those dual plastic sticks between my hands and slurp noodles with those two everyday.

There’s this great huge wall made of history and stories and brokenness.

And it’s too deep to explain. But I could dig up the whole thing, if it meant I could have them hold my arms as we walk through that town, on our way to have some of that sweet cold coffee that they make near the college that those two used to attend.

8000 miles. Ah, a little pixie dust could do it. I’d fly the whole way if it meant I wouldn’t cry so hard every time I looked at the picture of us three, nudged in the creases of my Bible.

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