On the way home from the protest,
It occurred to me you likely would have
stood quietly on the corner of Oak and Colorado
with a sign that said, I stand with the President.
It makes me grateful we were able
to talk about such things when you were here,
both of us loving our country in such different ways.
I’m sure somehow you know they flew
the American flag over the capitol building
in DC for you, a gift from someone we never met.
They sent us that flag. It flew over the school
on the day you didn’t graduate.
I sat in the school parking lot that day and watched
the breeze lift its corners, giving life to the flag,
somehow giving life to you, too.
Every time I see the American flag, I say hello to you,
especially the flag at the bottom of our drive.
I know you don’t hear me when I greet you,
but somehow I know you do. Like the way I don’t
hear the sun, its wavelengths measured
in hundreds of miles. Just because I can’t
comprehend the sound doesn’t mean the sound
isn’t there. So I send my small yawp into the air,
and trust our mutual love for our country still brings
us together somehow. Me in person, you in the wind,
the wind that catches this hello from my lips
and carries it beyond what is here. What is here?
The chance to remember how deeply we can love
those who are so different from us. The chance
to remember how unity can look like disagreement.
The chance to remember what is here is sometimes,
like peace, what doesn’t seem to be here.