True Colours

Danny, Jimmy and I huddled, as guys will do, around the bed of the pickup. Around us as far as the eye could see stretched what remained of Cameron: a large debris field that stretches miles into the marsh inland.

Danny points at a small, American flag that lays in his truck bed. "Found it in a ditch the other day. Thought I might hang it on the tower. What do you think?" I looked at the flag. It was dirty; all covered with mud. It was plastic, like something you'd cover a picnic table with. I looked at Danny to see if he was serious. I looked at Jimmy. Both were studying the flag laying in the bed of the truck. A moment or two, maybe more, passed and Jimmy, in a deep, reverent, Kentucky drawl slowly said, "Yeah. We're mightly proud of that thar flag." You could have heard a pin drop. The world around me slowly stopped as my inside the beltway cynicism was crushed by the moment.

Danny slowly bent over and ever so carefully tucked the edge of the flag under his cooler so it wouldn't accidently blow out of his truck. I told Danny I thought it was a wonderful idea and offered to help.