Political involvement in Toledo, Ohio.
Toledo is gray, even when the sun makes you squint and the sky is clear like stainless steal. Even then, it is gray. The signs are everywhere, controlling everyone. Trump. Stein. Clinton. Johnson. And some are names I've never even heard of. It is called the glass city, easily shattered, not as easily rebuilt. Here, the trees are changing. The air feels different almost, with fear and fatigue, and maybe some hope. I meet a man named Thomas Jackson, who plants trees along the barren roads. The city scolds him, makes up some breach of conduct. Keep planting them, I say. The trees bring so much life, so much breath. Keep planting them. This is our country, with it's diseased heart, failing so many vessels. A woman asks me for some money, so she and her daughter can eat. We talk. What's her name, I ask. The trees whisper and let go. Her name is Tomorrow, and she is 11.