A Rest Area Along Interstate 3

by Shawn Phillips



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I wash my hands. I like the way they drip under the faucet. Not many people realize the power of water, simple, pure water. The source could be anywhere: the mountains, a stream, the ocean, a swimming pool, or a faucet. Once, long ago, the earth you stand on was covered with water, twice. Both times, a dark expanse enveloping a planet. Once, to bring life, then once to end life. I was there, for both of them. I understand the power of water, from giving life, to taking life, and everything in between, like shaping, diluting, moving, washing... like right now. The power of water, right here, coming from this faucet. Washing my hands, washing my deeds, washing my sin. Water knows no colour, knows no stain, knows no allegiance. Perhaps this is my only hope, that I may be forgiven for the first time, washing away the deepest stain ever made. Wash my dirty feathers, my countenance, and then I can return to my rightful place. Let the Morningstar fight his own battles, I cannot be responsible for them... but only for my own transgressions, which I cannot help to repeat. I wash my hands, and wonder if this is what it is like to be human...


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