Flags

Dear Man-Flying-the-Confederate-Flag-from-the-porch-of-your-home. 

I passed you yesterday while out on a long bike ride. You were drinking your coffee as I rode by…sitting there in a rocking chair…beneath the small colorful paper lanterns hung from strings across your wooden deck…a deck that overlooks the small country road that rolls beneath my wheels. 

I waved at you as I passed and you waved back. A nod, a smile. We saw each other. 

You appeared in that brief flash of recognition, to look like many a man I know. You have white skin…the telltale signs of sun have made it tan, leathered and loose with wrinkles. Your lawn is small but neatly manicured. Your clothing simple…a bright T-shirt, a pair of shorts. 

And as I rode on by, back to the house where I am staying here on the NC coast, I thought about all the people you may sadly never meet…especially my friends with black or brown skin…who, are filled with fear and anger as they pass that flag…and you, who chooses to fly it. 

And now…I decide to stop writing these words and drink my coffee…look to the expansive ocean beyond my front porch and be grateful for the richness of my life, the friendships I have…the people I love and who love me.

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