I cried.
Every year it was the same. Him standing atop the highway bridge, letting eyes drift toward him, letting sweat run down his face, letting that one, proud symbol flap crisply in the air if there was wind. No wind, and the cloth hung limp to sleep against its pole.
Red, white, and blue sang in the melodies of the sky. Two weathered hands grasped the wood of the pole, splintering tough skin. Thick, black words were painted across the flag that each year I tried to read but couldn’t. The only word I ever saw on the flag was FREE.
When the fine dust of firecrackers wandered up my nostrils, the sumptuous colors of unruly Chinese invention graced the night, and freckled boys of ten and twelve stood on the curb yelling, “Hey! Hey there!” as the parade marched on, I knew it was time. I would see the man.
Yes, the man. Yes, that patriot.
I drove below him each year, on my trip to my hometown, and back again that same night. He stood on the bridge spanning the highway. He never seemed to move, even though the flag he held did. And how it moved! Through heavy winds it glided outward—SNAP!—inward once more. Or it would laze about, perking up with a ruffle at the sporadic breeze.
I never got a good glimpse of his face, driving as I was. I liked to imagine him with the face of a long ago soldier, whiskers framing the mouth, eyes still clear and bold from younger years, bones giving the face a distinction, though the skin is beginning to sag. That would be him, alright. Always raising the flag in a tired yet sincere salute to his country.
My tears continued in awe of such a patriot. What a hero! Surely he had a secret or a story to tell. Some knowledge, some insight. Yet all I saw was a glance of him each year.
I had grown accustomed to seeing him on the bridge in the sunlight. This year was no exception. A second’s glimpse, gas chugging—swissshhh. Under the bridge, out of sight, never out of mind. The tears began to dry on my cheeks as I made the wild decision to meet my hero.
With much difficulty, my “I think I can” vehicle turned itself around, up the exit, onto the bridge, and headed toward the man’s annual spot.
My car door slammed, and I hopped out. His back was to me, stone still. The flag wiggled clumsily in the breeze.
“Hullo, sir. Eh—I just wanted to tell you, how much I—uh, how much I take to heart what you do each year...”
He turned. You could call his face a grayish mush; I couldn’t tell what were his features and what was his skin. His eyes—small, sunken-in gray pockets that watered and dripped constantly. A pinkish-gray line moved up and down like a cow chewing grass. Hair poked out of his nose and ears, and a few tufts prickled off of his chin.
“Whaddya want?” he said, almost barking in his gruff tones.
“Um, I just-”
“Listen, you better not be one of those people who say that our country is great, our country is fine, and that I should go somewhere else.” His mashed potato and gravy face meshed around a bit.
“I’m not sure I quite understand...”
Crack! The wind whipped through.
And the flag, reading: YOU CALL THIS COUNTRY FREE?
“I’m—I’m sorry. I think I, uh, thought you were someone else.”
