The Flag

A flag is certain the wind admires it —the breeze flaunting it so its crowns, leaves, crosses, bands of colour, or stars float in air, ready to be honoured, deferred to. In turn the flag at times pats the wind streaming past, confirming they stand together, believing the wind thinks of itself as Tunisian wind or American wind.

To people who live under the flag open in its glory, or relaxed against a pole or propped in a corner, the coloured cloth means only one thing although that one thing depends on who beholds it: this banner unites us against our enemies elsewhere, or this banner unites us against enemies amongst us. Flying the flag can mean some of us know that our authorities, our supposed experts, are wrong in what they tell us, that they secretly serve other flags or particular wallets. The flag aloft for some of us proclaims our confidence those with elected or scientific agency, whatever their faults, want us healthy, wise, comfortable, protected.

Still, on close examination, the fibres of the flag’s cloth transform to a dense mist that obscures anybody rich, anyone in debt, anybody poor. And in the fog no evidence is visible that the flag serves repeatedly as a shroud.