I put it there years ago.
I was riding a felucca down the crooked river, and the guide said not to.
The water’s filthy. Riddled with bacteria, scary movie stuff and who knows what.
Or something like that.
When he returned to navigation, I casually snaked my hand in anyway. The other guide grinningly shook his head and skootched next to me to whisper, “Once you place your hand in the Nile, you become part of it. Part of us.”
Come on line? Maybe. Maybe not.
I bobbed my head, thinking that if this place that had called me to it and felt like my soul’s home, wasn’t already part of me, then I was the punch line in some cosmic joke.
And every day this picture reminds me to keep one hand reaching for far, far away things that seem like mine.