I arrived in Berlin just in time to see the cottonwood trees shed themselves for the summer making it look like a fluffy snow storm, God blowing a late-season dandelion over the whole city. Along the curbs, dust bunnies gathered for a minute before a breeze would come along and shoo them away.
I suppose every city has a past to escape, but maybe none more than Berlin. Reminders of its not-so-distant past slap you at every turn. See a building over sixty years old? You have to wonder what secrets it holds.
On Saturday evening at dusk, I ambled along a quiet street, my head down staring at Google maps drawing me closer to the pizza place I wanted to try. I glanced ahead of me and saw a nun in full white habit. Her face was delicate, probably in her mid-seventies, and she stopped, then looked up. I followed her gaze, didn’t see anything, but suddenly all I heard were the insistent loud chirps of a thousand birds singing to the spring. As I passed her, her smile slight and wistful, I thought of a little girl hunkered down, shivering from the sounds of destruction surrounding her as the Allies and Soviets took control of this city. And now she can look up, watch the sky move from blue to orange and listen to the songs of relief.
WRITTEN 05/30/2017
