Walking in Traffic

today i feel like walking in traffic. I see the signs like this is a bad idea. The stop lights gravitate towards me. I feel like this is a bad idea. The cars rush past me, and I walk that white line. I stop at each crossroad and let the mothers with their baby carriages pass freely. I feel like traffic. Like rush hour traffic, the kind of traffic where noone moves. I sit in my car, and wait for the next light, next green light. Soon we all turn yellow. Then finally red. Why can’t we be green? Some of you are movers and shakers, you drive the fast lane. You take chances, you drink coffee spilling it on your suit, as you cut me off and flip me the bird. And then there are those in the slow lane either stoned or old. They are fiddling with the radio dials, they are sipping their beverage from the store. They are chewing on their gums. The old grip the steering wheel thinking about how scary it is to be old. They look small while they wander in their minds about where the last 40 years had gone. They look nervous. Then there are the slow going stoners, with approachable bumperstickers, listening to the NPR or the indie/pop/rock/hip-hop/thrash/punk/jazz/classical music they have on their ipod/cd player/tape player/head. They slowly drive with full throttle thoughts. Then there are those in the middle lane. They want to go slow, they want to go fast. They get mad, they get sad, the middle line is the emotion of the road. They drive fast, but slow, haven’t quite picked the right road. Then there’s me, walking.

I want to drive fast, I want to drive slow, and I want to own a car. I want the slow lane life, while driving in the fast lane life. I want it all, but I must stop, tie my shoe, and wait for the bus. The bus life, that’s where my people ride. We are hardworking, we are downtrodden, we are pregnant, we are the bus riders, we are old, young, and can afford a bus pass, waiting to get in that middle lane, so we can make a decision.

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  1. No need for a reply–written by me to my big brother Mike

    A Stitch of Red

    This thought came to me
    Like a rose to my head
    Unlike the daily thorn
    That leaves from my bed

    The pain of war lingers
    Without words in dark places
    It remains unspoken
    Because of those tears that
    Make us feel unraveled

    When actually our thoughts
    Are in memory for those
    The ground has claimed
    And words can’t describe
    The pain of being misunderstood

    So with pen a tear is formed
    To write tears will form
    To read tears will form
    Even to think tears will form
    So please listen when the living speak
    But listen and speak with your heart
    For I am a stitch of red

    Hidden among the honor of many
    No stitch is brighter
    Yet still remains among the white
    The blue and all those stars

    The red stands proud
    But does not represent any branch
    Nor race, nationality or gender
    Nor any one battle, event or time

    But each stitch of red
    Speaks of the sacrifice of an individual
    The dead, the wounded and the living dead
    For each stitch of red reflects
    The memories and the true cost of war

    Our flag looks best unfurled
    Flying proudly in the wind
    But the red really moves the flag proudly
    For you see a stitch of red
    Is replaced day after day, year after year
    And generation after generation
    With new red stitches and
    A stitch of red
    Knows that

    A Stitch of Red 2010

    Some will never forget, move on or get help
    Because memories hide their true meaning
    For years or even a life time
    You see, our memories do not compare
    To those that gave it all for America
    Our memories seem to carry the burden
    Of remembrance of the dead for the living
    In the form of our silence and troubled heart

  2. “A stitch of red” from the fabric of the American flag lends a voice to the living who remain troubled by wars long ago. The writing is to my brother who will understand the meaning. The writer hopes the words will be read by family members over and over with their hearts, hopefully to better understand the meaning implied by my own words in “a stitch of red”. Love Dad

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