Sunday

image Kent road was not closed this morning.

No sirens, unlike 3 years past,

or was that 4 now,

when they had disturbed my sleep.

I should not have been asleep.

 

My little street was not packed with cars this morning.

or walkers or dogs or the friends of neighbors;

unlike last year, and as in years gone

when I had joined the party as my neighbor’s friend.

Today, there is no party.

 

imageHome was quiet this morning.

The city is at rest.  Waiting.

unlike last night, and as that before

when flashes made the night lighter

though a building blocked our view.

 

I could not follow my path this morning.

Tradition halted.

They wanted to know why I went alone.

unaware that my mother flew to Montana

where a friend shares her own tradition,

one not permissible here.

 

My friends are not celebrating this morning.image

The bombas will not fly

like they did Christmas Eve

when the gringos were singing Silent Night

praying that our thatched roof would survive.

 

Everyone partied that night.

We roamed the streets until morning.

unlike when I heard their anthem sung

but could not join.

I would never understand the words’ meaning.

 

image

A different song was sung this morning,

to a different tune than theirs.

Afterwards another

and another.

Songs that span nations, languages, and traditions.

 

I sung that song in Nicaragua.

The words were different.

The words are still the same.

Greater things are yet to be done in this city.

Tomorrow, we will celebrate.

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