108,000 steps or 54 miles until they reached the unknown

The goal was always freedom but would it be on the other side?

Freedom to express your voice, to be heard , to be seen

There has always been talk of freedom, but in America what does it really mean?

 

I am the bridge.

The bridge that spans across tomorrow that reaches into yesterday

Our dark past wicked, twisting and turning among blood lined streets

Streets paved with strange fruit plucked too soon and filled with agony 

And sometimes defeat

I am the bridge.

Never walked a mile in a woman’s shoes who lost her lil’ girl on a Sunday

Dressed to go meet Jesus but never knowing it would be so personal until that day

That day when she kissed her cheek and released her hand saying, “ learn all you can”

Amongst the rubble emerged a new word and we called it “Bombingham.”

I am the bridge.

Fifty years later, that woman recognizes the pain she sees in others

Trayvon, Jordan, Crawford, Brown and Garner; all somebody’s sons

What was done to her son? When did Selma resurrect as Ferguson?

Who now would call that woman with tear stained eyes and broken heart, mother?

I am the bridge.

I stretch wide and I choose whether I come or go. Running, screaming, breathing, praying. 

I can’t breathe and yet I must because freedom is my goal and THIS life is not my stop.