All American White Girl

My parents always say I would have made a good pilgrim.

Maybe they are right.

I often wonder what it would have been like, 

To cross the vast depths of prairie
in an early 1800's covered wagon

How to begin to imagine the seas of bison?

The first sight of mountains,

The encounters with strange humans,

The deaths and hardships,

The building of a myth.

How curious

That here I sit, nearly a dozen generations since,

Amongst this patch of houses,

Connected by a massive grid of electricity and cement.


Am I here?

Why this life and not another?

How much more time until I'm gone?

Returning to where I came from,

That dearly held secret.

For here I reside

Amongst this strange cacophony of wonder.

Why me?

 Why now?

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