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.
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
I like the cut od your jib.
Wow, thats awesome.very talented about the pains of war. i understand
“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