When the ones after us come along and regard what we’ve created, it will be almost mythical, indeed legendary, the story we tell them.
We will say we were there. And they will know from the look in our eyes and the tiredness in our throats that we’re telling the truth.
When we started, we didn’t know the end. I guess that’s what made us courageous.
Us, walking up to doors and pounding them with fists,
Us, holding hands with strangers and digesting uncomfortable words.
Us, crossing the line and grabbing back the microphone.
Us, loving the ones on the other side enough to make a space for them, like a grieving mother who keeps an empty room.
And when they ask — the next ones, that is — when they ask, the answer will be obvious but we’ll tell them anyway.
When the Gods stepped in.
When the ground shook and the earth rumbled because we made it rumble. It was our feet and our hands and all that pounding that made the rock deep underneath turn to liquid, gurgle up, and spray out of a thousand century-old holes, a molten spray melting the buildings and the roadways, burning new paths straight through mountains.
And as the firey tidal wave arched over us — little Us — we watched half out of fear and half out of awe as this thing happened, as the curl came down and the layers spread and cooled, expanding the shore, connecting the continents, filling the holes, rewarding us with new places to walk, to live, and to love.
More space, finally, enough space.