In the dawn, the stifling warmth of this nation lingered across the path, a path that as youngsters, we cautiously approached the majestic structures of nylon tents, sizzling amidst the foliage, reaching skywards. Internally, they boasted silvery arches ribbing into a pinnacle, marking an ascension like a hand joined in devotion, morphing the daylight into an intricate maze of shadows.
Scattered around were remnants of an empty wine bottle, pieces of tin foil, a filthy mattress. My brothier, with his soft chubby hands raised a tarnished spoon, enveloped in a worn-out blanket, all symbolising the sacrificial body – “take this and drink”. That is, until the moment our father discovers our hideout, freeing us, pleading with us to hold on.
“This is someone’s home,” he asserts, as the noise of a passing jet blurs in the background. I refrain from expressing how the earth trembled then, how the noise squashed the atmosphere, and suddenly, we could discern the chiming that had been wiped off the earthly surface. This piece is from Kelly Michels’s new compilation American Anthem, published by The Gallery Press, portraying the story of an iconic day.