Folded in Ink and Stars

A banner flutters in miniature pride, stars frozen mid-waltz, stripes folding like gentle waves— a tiny chorus of red, white, blue. I imagine the seam of that paper flag, its edges serrated like hopeful teeth, waiting to bite into air, to sail across neighborhoods on whispered wings. Each star is a promise— a small light in a massive sky. Each stripe, a pulse: resilience, unity, churned history distilled into red—blood, courage, sacrifice. At the bottom: FREEDOM— a single word anchored in gray, soft as ash and loud as a marching drum pressed into one corner, a vow to endure beyond the moment. I see letters etched beneath fingers, penned in midnight lamps— love letters to mothers and soldiers, invitations to lonely birthdays, apologies and confessions sent with trembling stamps of hope. On this paper flag, we bind our stories. It’s less about the pride of nations, more about the weight of our words and the silent faith that someone, somewhere, will hold that flag and read our hearts.