Monday, January 21, 2013


Small eager faces gathered around a shriveled tiny woman in a cozy arm chair. The bedtime ritual of spoken word comfort envelopes rapt cherubim. Quivering hands remove the faded box top. Showing and telling worn papers and pictures. Recreating the fierce urgency of nowfor those whose now was her now 50 years ago. So unlike the now of those now's long past. This now is free of collective labeling. Faces flush with pride as the little voice shouts "Barack Obama is the 44th President!" The same way it was announced the first time of the new time. Telling young ones about the time hope walked among people kept her old bones animated and supple. She was happy to tell how men of war and greed and hatred were rooted out. As hope, and faith and humanity seeds were planted by a man of change and color. Happiest when telling them color wasn't his defining ink. She hunched forward to whisper "He linked us together with hope and change!" "Hand me my box and remember, hope and change are the tools." Little hands clapped with glee as pictures and papers returned to their box. And we the children's, children's, children of people once linked by chains, save papers and pictures to tell the story of burgeoning new America. Changing. In the time of Obama. As the festivities wind down I'm certain the spirits of Dr. and Mrs. King are twinkling approval on the fullfilment of their dream, no longer deferred as they are mercifully, and mightily set free at last.

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