There are ghosts on the road. They make the pavement cracked and old. They fill up your GPS with dots, connecting you from one grave to another. From brownstone to brownstone. As generations grow older and are born. So many faces are blurred together. So many variations on a theme. The living holding on to their flame. The dead leave a bread crumb trail for you to follow. Once standing above, we look down and feel our feet growing roots into to the same soil. Looking for the history we found. Is it their DNA or their stories that hold us to these plots, America?
On top of the cemetery. On the mountaintop. Introspection buries its stubborn head. Like a swarm of black flies, all around, everything. In your eyes, ears and nose. Biting you and following you down the hiking trail. As you scream, I am not from around here. I want to be inside with the air conditioning instead. I want to forget my heritage and hide. But the insects have been here forever. They go further back than any grave plot. Further back than any family’s lot, who followed migration over to America.
These lands are still wild. The more we know the more we realize, that the Native American had it right. Had the connection with nature we often seek. Respected the animals they killed and ate. Did the ghost dance for a world of peace, to the same creator so many preach. The Dutch came. Started farming and fighting. Built borders and walls. Used the stone to carve out their hard lives. Out of harvest. Out of famine. Fighting the British before we all melted into one people. Taking everything from the land. To make it a new brand, America.
A sculpture will greet you now. Liberty her pitch. All of the world comes to greet her at her feet. Stand in awe of the man power to make her stand on her cherished island. As she walks forward looking to enlighten a world that is not in need. No longer needs to expand. No longer needs her light to find land. Understands that she had her time. Because eventually all people will find the liberty they seek. Be it in Egypt or Syria. Be it in Chicago or Detroit. Now, all blood runs deep. On this land we kill. On this land we teach. To find America.