(for Jordan Davis and Trayvon Martin)
Glory’s in the glove-compartment:
your little American legends
brandished in banal
under filling-station floodlights,
upon overtended lawn.
Take your damned flags and crosses
down; these nights
those children walk alone, not
comprehending, still hearing music,
still trying to get home.
A few minutes ago I happened to look at my travel blog (between 2001 and about 2009 I was a relatively successful freelance travel writer; the blog is for the most part made up of travel narratives I’d written that weren’t quite commercially-oriented enough for most travel publications, but are still my favorites), and at a story I wrote back in 2006.
The story, which is called “Depressed at Disney World”, is about a press trip I took to Orlando just when my newly awakened grief for David had started to surface, and I was on the brink of a kind of emotional free-fall. In the story, I simply refer to David as “my friend.”
It occurred to me that this might be a good place to share it. Here’s the link: