Many hands treasured their opportunity to wipe the wall’s already spotless surface clean—feeble fingers, youthful fingers, course fingers—all pinching a Q-tip to dig through every crevice and curve of the wall’s molding. The wall never let the pampering get to its head, acknowledging the work as testimony of its significance and worth.
Someone entered the room who the wall could not recognize. Before the wall could identify its fear, the intruder heaved a gallon of dark blue paint, a slime oozing and settling into cracks onto the wall’s innocent surface. The wall couldn’t squirm or clean itself. For hours it waited until the first white dressed man arrived and fell to his knees. He wept the tears the wall did not have.
Hands worked tirelessly for days until they believed the wall was restored to its original condition. On the surface, yes, it was. Inside, the wall was different. Before, it only believed it was precious because of how it was treated and cared for. Now it knew it was precious because of those agonizing moments when it was tainted.
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