A woman my age flashed me a thumb’s up at the rest stop near Bristol as we crossed paths. I smiled, but wondered why her hand was held so close to her body. Did she not want the man behind her to see it? I sat down on a bench near the car. She came out of the restroom and walked up close to me. “Do Trump supporters ever go after you for your shirt?” She asked softly. I said no. “Are we the silent majority?” She thought me brave for wearing my shirt. She didn’t know “why they’re so ignorant,” and worries what will happen if he becomes president again. Some of her nearest and dearest. After she said she’d just have to pray, I noticed the cross hung around her neck. My husband arrived. I told her he’s with us. Her husband walked by, not greeting us. She and I said goodbye with our hands held palm to palm.
Just north of Lexington, at the top of a very high flagpole, flew a confederate flag. Only slightly faded.
