The Stoplight

There is a stoplight now in my hometown
at the intersection of Highway 69 and 210.
Progress, that stoplight.

I slow my car down, 
impatient for the light to turn.
I look over at the cemetery where my
mother-in-law is buried.
I did not know her well.
But I think of her now.
She grew up in this town.
Was that same oak tree here?
Was that same fence
around the graves?

There is a stoplight now on Highway 69 and Main
over by the old doctor’s office.
We have a new medical building now, 
on the other side of town.
Progress, that stoplight.

New lights,
new houses,
pop up one by one.
Young couples with big ideas 
have moved to town,
their lives unfolding.
Flowers in planters
and weather resistant rockers on their porches,
and signs with rustic designs from Walmart that say Welcome 
or Home 
in cursive lettering.
Bright flags in the colors of college football teams
are stuck with spikes into pristine lawns,
announcing who lives here 
by who they root for.
Everyone is inside,
Tvs humming. 
Progress.

Houses in neat developments.
Wide driveways with enormous pickup trucks. 
Red white and blue banners with names of politicians
in bold lettering.
Another convenience store.
Another church.

Morning after morning, 
I walk with my dog.
We look 
at the houses,
the trucks,
the signs.

We pause at the stoplight on Highway 69 and 1st
by the hardware store 
until the light says Go.

Dispatches from the Heartland is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.