27 Jul I Was Here
I sit down to write my blog in a small restaurant with only three tables inside. The walls are covered with signatures of unknown people who have visited over the years, like a giant visitor’s book. I pick up a black sharpie that’s in a cup on the table and add my name and today’s date to the wall. I was here.
My eyes scan the names of people who likely sat right where I’m sitting, and I think about the marks we leave behind.
In a place far away from this restaurant with its invited graffiti upon the walls and in a time that seems impossibly long ago, Ice Age children squished their hands and feet into mud, leaving prints that are forever marked in limestone. I felt the mud between my toes.
A workman who participated in building the Great Pyramid of Khufu at Giza left behind scribbles that are thought to explain how the pyramids were constructed. I created something.
Paw prints are imprinted on 2,000-year-old tiles from Ancient Rome; marks of a puppy who ran across freshly made tiles before they were dry. I was a bit mischievous.
In ancient Pompeii, in the preserved ruins, are the words, “Antiochus hung out here with his friends.” I had a good time.
In the House of the Bicentenary in Herculaneum, an inscription was found hidden within a wall. It reads: “Marcus loves Spendusa, a slave girl” I had a secret that I loved someone.
A Viking man climbed up high and left a message on a stone that read “This is very high.” I made people laugh by stating the obvious.
A man imprisoned in the Tower of London marked each day of his sentence with vertical marks on the wall. I endured the slowness of time.
Doodles are found in the margins of 18th-century schoolbooks. I was a little bored during this lesson.
In the spire of a church from the 1700s, workers found a sealed copper canister containing a personal note from a woman who donated money to help build the church. I supported something I believed in.
Inscriptions cover the walls of the Hotel des Roches Noires, where British and Canadian soldiers were stationed in Normandy prior to D-Day. One message reads, “Pray for me, mom. I’ll carry your love with me.” I was scared as I faced the unknown.
A couple remodeling their bathroom found two McDonald’s hamburger wrappers and a small pile of French fries inside of the wall of their bathroom, perfectly preserved from over 63-years ago when the house was built. I ate this for energy while I worked.
A bookstore sells books that were once owned by a public library. A checkout card is stuck in the pocket of one and signatures are scrawled on different lines, a history of those who read this book. I held this book you’re holding now.
How beautiful it is—the ways we attempt to reach across time to let people know we were here—scratching our names into rock, pressing our hands into cement, marking our children’s height along the walls, burying a shoebox in the garden with mementos, or hiding notes in nightstand drawers.
“Hello,” we say to those who might see the marks we leave behind.
I was here.
I made something.
I loved.
I felt something.
I endured.
I had a good time.
I leave this little piece of me behind for you to find.