Ancestors

Written by C. F. Spelman

The causeway seemed bigger than when we were kids. The air wasn't as violent as then, at least not as I remember it. It was still sad and stirring with lost souls but that was the ancient nature of this land.

“Do you think it'll ever be free?” He asked me.

If there was one question I could sum up the entire experience of my life on, that would be it. Sometimes I thought it was just a product of my environment. Other times, it may have been my purpose in this lifetime.

I didn't answer his question. The truth is there was no happy answer. If it was yes, at what cost? We had known many who suffered and died in agony for something that never came to be. If it ever did come to pass, how? Would it even work out? Would there come a day when the people forgot the sacrifices and wished to go back to the time before them?

If not, how long would we be haunted by the memory of those who starved on the side of the road? How long would we be haunted by the souls of those abandoned by their families who crowded on a boat to a land so far away? Would their agonizing cries be drowned out by the cheers of descendants who grew up in a foreign land, wearing silk and drinking beer out of crystal glasses? These descendants would never know their names or care about them.

He didn't know the answer either. If you knew us, you knew we are a very talkative bunch until we are not. This was a time we were not.

“Maybe someday I'll be an ancestor,” I muttered. It was an odd thing to say. He knew it.

“Of course you will. We all will be. We probably don't deserve it but the future generations won't know that.”

Maybe that's what the ancestors thought of us, one day in the past as they stood here on this land, longing to be free.