Pilgrimage from Balbriggan

The blue-black and moonless sky held more stars than she could imagine as Chloe sat on a park bench behind the El Tovar Lodge an hour before sun-up, having arrived just 4 hours earlier due to a delayed flight into Phoenix, adrenaline and napping on the plane vaporizing jet lag and fatigue.


Some 39 months ago, a wayward Yank tourist had left a magazine on a table whose top she'd wiped ten thousand times if once at the small pub where she'd slung ale and delivered plates and scrubbed floors on raw knees for eight years going.


The magazine had fallen open when it hit the floor, revealing a 3-panelled fold-out of a scene so captivating, so breathtaking, that she'd taped it to her tiny flat's kitchen wall next to the twin seated dinette.


She had scrimped and saved tips, and toward the end of her goal, even reduced her tabs at the market and halved her cigarette budget to get here.


First light began to reveal the canyon's rim as the crescendo of sunrise transposed dark canyon walls, bringing her to her feet with outstretched arms to the increasing tempo of the vibrant symphony of color now erupting from the Grand Canyon, delivering her dream as tears rolled freely from her eyes and found her doin' a jig to the music of her heart, she was!


On the plane ride back to Dublin and life in Balbriggan just north, Chloe fondled and pondered the silver, turquoise encrusted cross around her neck, knowing she had seen, had believed, and now possessed the inner kindling for the fire to forge new hopes and dreams.