Sometimes I let my flights of fancy take off — even if just for a moment — and can imagine that this hole in the wall goes somewhere else. Somewhere that’s not here. This day I remembered that I have a camera in my pocket at all times.
The local lore is that this road was built by English soldiers (pre-Revolutionary US). Sometimes I walk along it and imagine the poor, sweating, swearing men that were tasked with putting up these stone walls to make a way for farmers to cross the river at a narrow point. I scan the base of the wall for any sign that might have been left in the nearly 300 years since this area was settled by Europeans. I know, of course, that anything they dropped or may have jammed in between the stones is long gone. But sometimes I can feel them nearby, and I surely have a better life than they did.
Or maybe the crack in the wall leads to another place entirely. A fae realm where the preconceptions and strictures of our world don’t exist. Just find a way to fit between the crack and… you can live an entire other existence.
Some days, I kind of wish it was the latter.