Prague Stories

It is almost time to leave.  Two more days.  I am ready for home.

I am flying from Prague to London and London to New York and New York to Washington on American Airlines.

Took the green line to its last stop east.  Nothing but empty factories—brown smokestacks and broken windows.  A highway leads somewhere, and I walk down it.  I see a field to the left with the concrete remnants of something and there is a path of broken green glass. This is or was or might have been or was going to be something great.  I follow it into the darkness of the trees.  People live here in this darkness—I know it!  My heart booms loudly and fast.  Should I keep walking? “Of course not!”  Body tenses, but I keep on.  I cross a railroad track and a man with no teeth, smiling.  “Dobry,” he creaks.  The sky is getting darker.  Raindrops.  Still darker, and I look down. I am at a ravine.  50 feet down.  No one but me.  Silence and a birds creaks.

Some of the people on this trip aren’t like everyone else, and I love them for it.

“Our means secure us yet our mere defects prove our commodities.”  Shakespeare.