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And they die daily now. In the dead of night they come home, far from the prying eyes of those that did not believe, and into the grieving arms of those who did. As America’s leader laughs and looks under chairs and sofas for imaginary weapons, her children lie still in steel coffins and meet their eternity years too soon, courtesy of real ones. As the blossoms herald spring in the capital, the seasons stop in countless small towns and big cities as they stop to bury the dead. It is Winter In America now, each day colder and more barren than its predecessor. The hell that passed before us yesterday is the precursor to yet another day of bleakness today, as we lose more sons and daughters to the cold.
The cold seems to have no ending now, no sense that soon the warmth of sunlight will free us from the horror that engulfs us all. The Fool On The Hill prances in cowboy boots and holds fistfuls of dollars, his insanity covered by stars and stripes strategically placed to hide the blood that covers his hands. The posse of fools comes out from hiding to spout platitudes to the dead, and to rehearse tomorrows lies in advance. “Us, us, us, us, us, us, us, and them, them, them, them, them”….
There can be no doubt now – the leader is insane, mad as a hatter and dancing to the strings and sticks of an equally mad cabal of puppeteers. A pull on the right string and John Wayne saves the world, a pull on the left string and Steve Forbes saves the wealthy. When prompted, the feet dance the well known “yes I did, no I didn’t” shuffle, while the head waits for focused-grouped instructions and the mouth does as it’s told. It takes no questions, for it has no answers save for canned responses. The questions come, however, from the hearts of those who long before never dared to question. They pour out of anguished souls with anger seasoned by deceit, with hate stirred by dishonesty, and with disgust weathered by fraud. They come, with the cold, like an avalanche.
How many birthdays will be celebrated today at granite markers, where the guests wear black and the age of the honoree never changes? How many anniversaries will stay frozen in time? Why are the gifts of the day flags and flowers, and not fishing poles and baseball caps? Where are the chocolate cakes, the “To My Darling” Hallmark sentiments, and the handmade crayon cards that form the keepsakes for a lifetime? The cold has taken them all, and they are frozen now as well.
In the hell of the cold they ask, and they hear empty brave promises from an empty cowardly man. They do not believe now, for they have been dealt the most grievous of blows. Death has paid a call, hiding behind the cheap facade of jingoism and misguided allegiances. He leaves playing cards with childlike markings on them to mark his visit, their edges curling in the chill. Within the tears, the chosen await the day when the coldness leaves.
I, too, am cold, and I wait with them. Together, we work to bring back the warmth we remember. We shout sometimes, whisper others. With each step we take, we get one step closer to the warmth. With each lie we debunk, and with each thief we unmask, we move one step closer to the America we remember. As we move in unison, our voices swell, soon to drown out the puppeteers.
On that day, when we pull down the strings and cut the puppet loose to face the hell that surely awaits him, we tear down the stage and find the sun, beaming high in what feels like a summer sky.
The warmth is breathtaking.
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