He hands me the standard issue American flag variety with its red,its white, its ever-deepening blue. But I am tired, America, tiredof your shouting flags, this flag, all our flags, every—God help us—flag flying, flag lowered, flag bullet-holed and half-masted.
I ask if he has anything else, wishing flowers, trees, some soft washof watercolor, a woman’s vivid face. “Cowboys,” he answers. “And cowboy hats.” Slaps them down take-it-or-leave-iton the counter between us. I leave them. Leave the cowboys.
Leave their stupid John Wayne hats. I take my little bookof shrunken flags and step back outside into a sunlit summer—its spacious grace, its tiny trembling buds of red, great clouds of whitesuspended, scattered across the steadfast blue. Two small shining
girls skip past me, trailing their elegant mother, their hairthe color…
