Today I went for a walk, tracking the miles on my phone. I could be walking anywhere. A crowded city street, a sidewalk, breezing past old white farmhouses dotting the countryside. No matter where I am, no one wonders what I’m doing on these here streets.
I looked around at the wildflowers growing along the easement. Milkweed, dried-up bluebonnet pods, Indian paintbrush, daisies. If I were to walk onto someone’s property and pick one, they may peer out of their large houses and see me there, stooping down and stealing from their patch of earth. But a softness comes over them.
“Look at that woman,” the man would say. His wife would come over holding a mug of tea and nod. “I’m glad she is enjoying this weather.”
I walk along. I’m only at nine percent, but it’s a good start. The wind is abnormally high. It whips at my ears and pushes hair into my eyes. I thought of my years in West Texas where the wind raced through the cotton fields, tossing up dirt devils and sending sand into your mouth so you feel the grit between your teeth. People working in the cotton fields or inside mending hems or saying yessum I’ll get you some more hard tack and biscuits had no choice in the matter. The work went on.
A red sports car passes. I didn’t hear him coming up from behind. We are in a rural area, not many cars. He pulled to the other lane and nodded and waved at me. There is no trouble here. There is nothing evil to see. Look at me, a white women with designer sunglasses. I wave and nod back. Thank you for the courtesy of pulling over to give me room.
I look at my mileage counter. Twenty-seven percent complete. I wonder if a mother who loses a son wishes to know when they die, when they reach twenty-seven percent of their life. Who would think six years old may be the quarter marker, one fourth of the way there? I put my mind there, wondering what mothers think when their sons go walking in a hooded sweatshirt, having committed no crime. Will they be attacked? Will their life be cut short? Will they be questioned for simply eating a sandwich in their car on their lunch break?
I look up at the sun that is beating down and hold my hand up to shield the searing brightness. It was just a damn buzzard, circling. Something must have died and it was patrolling, about to descend. There is always something extremely sad to me about buzzards, forecasting the existence of death.
I am bearing down on Sixty-Four percent, rounding the second half, looking at the grand oaks. They have seen so much over the years, stolen kisses and lovers quarrels and the chatter of the squirrels. I always think of trees as having thoughts about humanity but keeping their opinions to themselves. What did they think when ropes were swung over their precious limbs? When men hung from such ropes? I bet they wanted to cut off parts of themselves. I trust trees have a good inner conscience. But they are silent as I walk, revealing nothing.
I hear in the distance the sound of a kid squealing. I assume there is a trampoline and joy involved. There are birds chirping and leaves rustling up next to each other. I hear the cadence of my own legs, plodding along on the pavement. There is something soothing about one foot in front of the other, a safety in the daily routine of jogging, running, walking. No one came up to me and asked why I was there, ruined my thoughts, interrupted me with a gun. No one was waiting for me like a damn steel trap.
Eighty-one percent. I round the final corner toward my house. I think about the mother this Sunday who will be hurting, who will wake up from sleep feeling she was almost there, about to grab or warn her son, but couldn’t. She will have round beads of sweat on her forehead. Her breathing will be rapid and short, and the horrors will come back to her in a second’s time. I think about the fact that my children will make me breakfast and homemade cards with cut-out hearts and crayons, alive. It is not fair. But nothing is.
I am at One Hundred Percent, 2.23 miles, home, a place of refuge, where my children sleep. I think of how I am not scared of life, of living, or walking or running or being. I think about how others don’t have this same sense of safety. I stand on the side of the road and think of the luxuries I have been given, the pain that I see others endure. I think of Ahmaud and his mother.
Lord, Lord. How do we begin repairing this. Let us see the dark places around us so we can shine light. Let us all walk boldly and with confidence the entire percentage of our lives, as long or short they may be. Let us have compassion for those who have been persecuted, and show grace in all ways. And for the mother this Sunday who is hurting, I put my hand in yours in solidarity. Sister, I’m sorry for your pain. I am one with you in spirit.
I set down my phone, my water bottle, my earbuds. I walk into my home where I smell food bubbling on the stove. This is not fair. I can only find the energy to write this message to you today, to tell you I’m aware of this inequity. And all I can do is teach a new generation a better way.
We all simply must keep walking forward, toward unity. Toward a new way of thinking. Toward a world that is blind to color, but not blind to love.
Beautifully said. Thank you.