I wake before dawn and walk the neighborhood streets. The houses on my route hold secret stories like mine. I am unknown except for the causal smile and wave, and I remain nameless. Early morning reality seems mythological. I embrace the signs and symbols as providence and carefully walk. I walk the sidewalk down crossing streets, loop back forward, and push home.
I speak of the symbols which are diminished in the sun’s light, but less rare and unhidden under the stars. The lamp shinning in the front window of a shoe box house tells the light of love present in a happy family. The fire wood stacked along a craggy driveway points to the difficulty of life even in an abundant age. The most striking symbol, however, is the American flag planted in the hard skin of an oak tree. How long it has been there? I don’t known, but it is a staunch flag…
We still love America and there a many that fly their flags. They are on porches, flag poles, and painted pallets that sit in well kept flower beds. The local comfort food restaurant had their flag flying half mast. When the wind blew I imagined it gracing the top of a passing semi-truck. Along the rural highway a crane hoisted the Stars and Stripes a hundred feet into the sky. It made for more than symbol of freedom. It made me feel free.
The lady tending the register at the filling station, where I get my fuel, asked me with a smile, “How are you?” I told here about the flag hanging from the crane up the road. She said, “That’s been there for sometime.”
I replied, “Yeah.” Then felt like that there was more to be said, but my words abandoned me. So, I just staunchly returned,“I love living in America.”
written by: Brett Wiley