cross culture

“Now don’t be frightened child,” she says remaining at my side as my father approaches me with a small frosty glass bottle, simply decorated, engraved with the stamp of a cross.

Their poignant gestures were peculiar to my foreign perception.  Something about the way they took their finger to their head, marking their body in the same shape as the enigmatic cross on the bottle disturbed me, though I was not afraid.

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