Journal

Inside the Darbar Sahib the walls carry the original work, flowers set and painted by hands long gone. I stood close enough to see where time had touched it and where it had not. Some things are made slowly on purpose, so they outlast the people who make them.

Some weeks before I left, I stood in front of the Darbar Sahib and watched a bird cross the gold. You grow up with a place like this and still it can stop you where you stand. I did not know yet how far I was about to carry the memory of it.