One asked the other in the thin, thin space between a blacker than black zone and a red hot zone. The sweat dripping off peoples' noses and brows. Guns cocked not 'cuz, but because the flipping and fever had got to the point of hair trigger.
"She wasn't being flippant," I said to mama on a patch-me-through big black desk phone being carted around since angry mob. "There'll be a breakthrough. Lord Jesus, we pray, there will be a breakthrough." The lady held a tore-up fingernailed hand praisin' and thanking Jesus under a gaudy chandelier and then put it on the shoulder of the "any old who" standing next to in the storm.
That storm had half the city underground for the devil walking mad.
Sometimes we seem commander-less, sometimes penned by command. The most terrible times prove we are not our stuff and You may not care about Jesus, but I CARE ABOUT YOU. That's at the core of preventing implosion and piecing ourselves back together after explosion. Almighty God's proof that what we are is soul in flesh, no matter what language we speak.
We might as well have been a Gaza in places in New York and Michigan. What had rifled through us was as difficult as civil war. And we'd had to start over from ground zero long before 2001. Again and again we keep pace with each other until...
We need fresh blood
We have to have police
No one can pay the taxes
We lost everything
Faces in shock having lived through "it", having not known. Some sign of humanity comes back to. "Can you hear me?" Nodding.
"I will NOT LET GO."
Whether we know the prayers and anthems or not, it's what Americans of all styles and personalities cry and rally. We don't let go of nation. Which means we don't let go of each other.
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