Original Work Week Three

This is based on the piece from Deep Travel "Reading About the Earthquakes in Assisi" by Anne Marie Macari.

As if what was sacred had become ridiculous, I peeled off my shoes.
The forest twisted behind me, left in a field of moss and history that will be discovered
by the next group of wild Americans, ready to learn for the moment.
Rocks fall from my socks, lined in the bottom of my shoe, making a pile of rubble
to put in a bag as a souvenir. I am cheap.

250 euro for a five week trip, my mission: Travel to Rome, Gubbio, Bologna, with
only the clothes on my back, scream in excitement at shampoo. I'll smell of cucumbers
and hibiscus, miss my mother, who shoves candles in my face saying "for the bathroom?"

She'd love it here in this medieval town, flags with clouds straight out of Medieval Times, without
the eating with your hands. I pick up a ceramic butterfly, brush my thumb over the blue and yellow wing, study the misplacement of a black spot. The only one imperfect, a throwaway in America.
Yet this man behind the counter, full of mood rings and little glass angels holding gems, throws
it in a cardboard box with others that don't fit on the table.

I'm this butterfly. One wing bent too far to the left, the other wing too thick.
My stripes don't match. But one day, I'll make my way off this table.
Ceramic butterflies and people can't fly,
but they can smile.