I heard a faint scratch at the door early one crisp holiday morning. It was the puppy wanting back in after the day’s beginning ritual of chasing squirrels away from the bird feeders, then herself turning on the ground feeders. Is this our story: giving and protecting until it becomes inconvenient?
We’re warm and cozy inside with friends and family from near and far, while the scratching at the door goes unnoticed by most. Could it be unemployed weary of asking, seeking and knocking for attention, underemployment or just an invitation to join in our song?
This is our story: pages dropping away every day, but hardly missed. When time allows only for bold typed chapter titles and online headlines, our story drifts into a looping redundancy too much to fuss over; scarcely noticing the disappearance of bees, cursive and reading.
On the top floor the greedy cat licks her empty bowl, as though she hadn’t just finished an ample meal. Wonder if fat cats will ever sing, enough for I am full, and now in complete satisfaction, I’ll share my litter box, giving the odorous order to send down the spacious burnished like mirrors bronze elevators to the ground floor, and if seasoned seasonal help is needed to fulfill our story, they can sing our holiday wishes, as we let the lift to the basement descend.
This is our story: expanding with millions more international subscriptions to untold herds who, ignoring the fine print in favor of 140 characters, miss that our song continues for those who build walls high, and not the order filling workers below.
This is our story: even if occasionally our song is temporarily interrupted by carolers interjecting Lift Every Voice and Sing We Shall Overcome. No FDR or JFK can deliver Obama healthcare from our returning refrain that confuses the very natural direction of nature, with our melting iceberg melody seducing even the animal kingdom with climate change. Alas, the very geese play follow the leader in which way do we go?
This is our story: Justice for all who sing our song of silver bells and five gold rings ownership. From above in our city behind the wall, we conduct, the desperate for a bargain, violently pushing our Black Friday and Cyber Monday profits — the army of shoppers occupying our malls beyond the Wall. After the roar of the crowd greasing our palms, the dissonance in decrescendo, returns to reprise our score.
Now, what’s your story? Singing in the rain of tears, burned by the Bush that burned your life savings; flying by China’s rules; Kneeling before an Iowa King? Will you settle for an Obama second chorus of a Truman’s Do Nothing Congress?
Or shall we Reach for the Sky, key changing our American story, with songs that better accompany the lyrics of The Gettysburg Address, Lincoln’s second inaugural, and all of The Constitution of the United States of America, and its proposed Equal Rights Amendment.
They’re playing our song: Frances J. Crosby, The All American Girls Baseball Players, all the riveting Rosies, Emma Lazarus Alice Paul, Rosa Parks, Hillary Clinton chapter and verse. So let us sing in grateful chorus as we expose Congress and dump The Trans Pacific Partnership. Let us make a joyful noise for all in the land for peace over war and healthcare instead of Insurance Industry’s Get Well Card.
Let us house and employ the veteran and grant equality of treatment for the mentally ill. Let us make our story one of progressing America through civility and unity to the blessed assurance of non-violence.
This is our story and our song: Tis Always the Season to Give Thanks You Can Give.