by Brad Beals
A father put a hand out for his son to take, and when the son had taken it, the two of them began to walk.
Out of the little house.
Out of the little village in the hills.
And onto the road that would take them to the City of the King and a wedding feast by the sea.
The boy had been to the city many times, so each bend, each dip in the road was familiar to him. Trees, hills, streams, and fields were signposts marking the distance. Even some of the rocks in the road, the larger ones that didn't wash away with the spring rains, were as friendly as faces. And as the boy walked the familiar way to the city, and as the day brightened, he began to feel older than he had ever felt before.
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