This face

America is normal.
America is my normal, anyway.

But it’s really a small place in reality, with just a puddle of people and an enormous foot-print, a loud booming voice, and eyes that are always shaded by the screen of something. HD. LCD. Cinema. Mirror.

Everywhere you go there’s a filter. Church. Street. Airport. Store.

But all I can think about, burning holes through that screen is this face.

This man greeted me in the middle of a dusty commotion of protesting in the streets of Nogombo Sri Lanka, and he did so with a grin so big and proud, gesturing that he wanted me to take his picture.

A big smile, dusty feet, clouded eyes and less to his name than I’ve ever had to mine.

Fireworks sparkle off the black of the sky and I see the word freedom shimmer through the cyber world.

Here, we are free.
What now can I do with my freedom, for the smiling man in Sri Lanka with a protest buzzing around him.
For anyone.

My hands are not tied by anything.
What now can I do?

This question is going to drive me mad one day.

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One thought on “This face

  1. Arlene says:

    you can write. Mom

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