Flimsy flags

Short bitten fingernails, scarred hands, red pen. The blue page slowly covered by blue ink. Grey jeans, brown boots. Itchy scalp and slightly sore eyes. Newspapers on the table, voices to my right, a song above my head. Café del Sol on a Thursday morning. Warm; grey-blue outside. Green trees still, standing. American flag waving, closer.

So many flags here: American flags, Confederate flags, Hokies flags, Tibetan prayer flags, those quirky flags people hang outside their homes. So many symbols. So many ways to say I’m different than you, better than you. So many ways to identify ourselves. So many ways to keep us from peace.

What flags do I fly? I will tell you I am E’s fiancé; I am the son of C and T, brother of S, M, D and N; I am a Dockers supporter; I am an Australian living in the US; I am a facilitator of The Work and a student of A Course in Miracles; I run a music venue; I live in an old white house and drive an old white car. And I would fly these flags to show how I am not you.

Is any of this true? In this moment I cannot even know whether E is alive; not one particle of my being remains from when I was born; the Dockers may have disbanded; Australia and the US remain, as ever, mere concepts; I am not facilitating The Work nor studying A Course in Miracles; the music venue behind me is quiet, unattended; the house may have burnt down and if E is no longer alive, probability states the car is likely ruined too.

Flimsy flags flap the most.