Jerusalem

No one chose this name for me today.
It’s hanging on a board.
Dusty.
Carved in wood.
When my Lord bought me two years ago, he looked at me for half a day and suddenly his wrinkled, dark forehead browed and he shouted, “Jerusalem!”

From then on he called me that.
We were supposed to go to festivals.
Me and him.
I had it good. Poor but good.

My old man cut apples from the old orchard for me and carrots , stroked me and gave me bread crusts.

Jerusalem, some say its the city of peace.
I guess that’s what I was supposed to bring here.
For my Lord was living all alone.
He was at odds with his children who didn’t want to visit him.

I was his world.
All.

But we never went to any festival.
Right after buying me, my Master fell ill.
He visited me less and less often.

Until a few days ago some people came.
They started taking everything out.
Then they stood in front of my box, which the Lord had broken for me, and laughed loudly when they read my name.
They left.
They said they would come back.
And that I’m going to slaughter.

I think my Master left me, you know?
I don’t think he’s here.
Because if he was, he wouldn’t let them laugh at me.

But they did it.
And I stood, watched and waited until the gates opened and my Lord entered with a wrinkled forehead.

He didn’t come in.
And today some people came.
They wiped off the sign.
They didn’t laugh.
They gave me a carrot.
They took some photos.

They said they would take me away.
In a few days.
And they went.

Will they take me?