I will open the windows tonight— not to free ghosts— but to welcome the whine of sirens— the thrum of HVACs spilling heat into this bruise-blue hush of evening, onto this cracked porcelain sky.
A rodeo blares on a TV screen from the neighbor’s garage— bareback bronc grunts played over a Bluetooth speaker while he drinks and power-washes— the driveway clean of this month’s soot.
On his Ford pickup— a Confederate decal, yellowing on a dented bumper.
I feel the mild repulsion bloom, not from hatred but inheritance— the lineage I can’t wear without choking on the tag.
There are no redbuds here, no grackles— just the crosswalk still holding the faded outline of a protest sign, where someone knelt until their shoulder bled into pavement—
this bloom of bruised concrete— the echo of feet that marched it—
the tragedy of everything decent that waits for the unquiet, unclean solution— that coils— a tense and necessary clock spring.
Still, the quiet creek across the way gurgles—— Wetowa, named for peace after struggle— renamed by developers— Silver Hollow Run,
a colonial inheritance that soothes, then jars— now just lavender spritz on rot.
I wonder why I stayed through all the steps of progress and protests— through layoffs— porch thefts— school board outbursts— barbershop sermons and HOA emails— through evenings the air tasted of asphalt and sage—
Even as my existence is reduced to an offering of receipts and scrawled index cards— a record of my small un-cast spells:
letters to city council, curses scribbled in sidewalk chalk, whispered prayers to the broken bottle tree at the bus stop
—I stayed because leaving would mean letting someone else choose the name of the creek.—
Across, the rodeo continues on— now yielding to steer wrestling— strength yoked to speed— a dance of control that breaks bones—
the cowboy reveling in the lassoing of beauty until it yields and aches.
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