The old red, white, and blue stands representing those who are heros. From the day I was born--feeling crisp air go into my nose and out my mouth--until the day I gasp for my final breath--feeling the death rising inside me--I know I’m safe. Standing and chanting words to an old, withered flag that hangs on the wall of my room, I’m safe.  Sitting on the prickly, verdant, grass, staring into the innocently, pure, blue eyes of my sister who I know will grow up safe. This is the “land of the free...”

I sit swinging in my bright pink hammock looking out into the glistening water, I think of those who don’t get the comfort of safety. The tenacious, gutsy, determined men who fight, knowing they may fall behind those who went before them.  Brothers, fathers, and husbands, struggle to hold onto a pencil too small for their pudgy, cut up hands, writing to their loved ones so they don’t have to worry.  This is the “home of the brave...”

I look back at that old red, white, and blue, swaying in the wind hanging on a rusted pole too high to touch, that flag is our freedom.