Day 70: Bassano del Grappa

I looked both ways and hoisted myself up onto the bumpy rocks. It felt like quite the feat in my puffy coat, being careful not to crack the sunglasses I had delicately balanced in the front zipper. (In hindsight, I should have just left those at home.)

But I felt like being daring. After all, there were no signs forbidding it. And peering through the window, it was obvious the kind of visitors the place had seen before: ones who wanted to dump their trash, deface the walls and show a kind of cheap dominance, the kind that refuses to show respect. 

Not me. I knew where I was walking -- over sheep bones, a book jacket, the handle from a mug -- life had been here. Life had ended here. And time was slowly reclaiming it all.

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