It’s always the before and the after that are most engaging. The music is warm and nostalgic through the phonograph of our hearts when the city has fallen to ruin, stepping over the rubble and taking pictures of reverence wishing its fate could have been better. Similar is the hope that plucks ideas one at a time for stitching together new plans for new buildings, new bridges, new roads, and new cities under the careful guard of what is right and what is expected. It must be delivered and must be granted life that we will morn decades from now when it passes after a lifetime of hatred and millions of miles in steps trodden on their backs. Candles will be lit in mourning but not given to light a darkened home.
Clamorously she threw her belongings in her bag and shoved firmly at the door’s chest. The first steps came faster than she knew and it wasn’t until she had passed several of her neighbor’s homes that the fury settled enough for her to slow. Her sister was gone, and as if the sorrow of that wasn’t heavy enough it was blindsided and regulated to the back of the line behind the rage-inducing injustice. She wanted to scrape out everything she could from herself and pay respect to what was now gone forever, or to at least speak of love that she carried and would always carry for someone who wouldn’t ever walk through a doorway again. Every time she tried to see herself grip the sides of a podium and speak in memory of her she heard hecklers in the sea of black and the mic cut. All she could do was walk down the street amidst the pieces falling all around her.
One by one by one, she left what she could behind her.