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Reworded Reflections

It came to me again, as I drove down the highway behind my sister’s big moving truck. As it carved a path to her new life.

As it trotted its way through the cornfields and small towns buried deep in the middle of the golden content.

With the radio’s voices in the background discussing the questions our country is asking, and my mother sitting next to me sharing unfinished thoughts and reflections.

It came in a way different than before. Calm, cool, and relaxed. Without pressure or apprehension.

It came merely as a factual question.

Alongside faces with crooked smiles and deep, dark, beautiful eyes. Of children playing on donated bikes.

It came with the questions asked to me far away, if silver bullets really do fly like birds in my home state.

It was accompanied by the words of a man, who some admire and others hate; but who knows the confusion of growing-up out of place.

And I was left wondering again: what can I do?

When I hear people preaching to themselves and see the blind not listening. Sometimes it seems like an endless cause not possible of winning.

And as I listened to the voices preaching again, I remembered my fear to speak.

And I wondered: how many people are like me?

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