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  • Early on the third day, the sun comes over the houses to the east of us. I open my eyes, kick sticky blankets to the floor. How was last night so cold? The glass on my window is hot when I touch it. My skin is darker here. The sky is pinker.

    The Psalmists sing: "If I forget thee, O Jerusalem..." It echoed from father to son, mother to daughter. It found me in Ohio. What is this Eastern place we turn to when we pray? This place that is so old and so foreign. Where conflict and peace prayers compete. All these pieces of this broken world, all these pieces of all of us, together.

    It's 7am, and I have overslept. I can't find my prayer book, can't find my homework, can't find my shoes. Dear Place That My Mothers Prayed For: How am I so lucky to wake up and walk your streets to school? My greatest worry that I won't get to morning prayers on time.
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