In a small town in the north, there is a warm wind that blows through it every spring, and people will gather, and share in conversation what it is that they are looking forward to in their lives. Expecting parents will relax and look forward to the joy that will soon be in their lives. Children already with them, will run and play outside, imagining new worlds and dreams, never imagined before. New loves and old loves, will feel at peace with each other, refreshed and excited for the unknown future that will soon be a happy present. All because of the warm wind that comes with the change of the season. All of these things, and more, are known. And all of these things, and more, are expected.
It is the way of things.
This year though, there were no new loves, there were no expecting parents, there were no children running in the streets. There was nothing to imagine, there were no new worlds, or, the new worlds were too dark to imagine. The warm wind, blew it's warmth on the town. But, like a widow crying on her husbands coffin, it fell on deaf ears.
Somewhere far away from this place, for reasons beyond most of the residents understanding or appreciation. A small group of people made a mistake. Because of this mistake. The town was dying. There were no jobs, those that still had them could barely afford their modest hard working lives. And they didn't know what to do.
This had happened before, they had heard the stories, they had heard about the darkness that swept across their continent. They had seen the movies all about it.
In remembering this time, some of the people knew that they had to band together, to work together, they had to form large communities, and work hard together to survive. To give, when there seemed that there was nothing else to give. To create a community of struggle, compassion, and understanding.
The last time this horrible type of mistake was made, they survived, the town survived. In the time of absolute darkness. Where there was no hope. The people shone at their brightest. Brighter than they ever had before, or ever have since.
This time when the troubles hit. Everyone seemed to gladly leave the town, give up on each other, and keep what was theirs. To share none of it. To give to no one. To make everyone fend for themselves.
Eighty years since the last one, the world had changed dramatically.
When the old man that spent his winter taking his tractor out and helping pull cars out of the ditch, lost his farm. He had nowhere to go. His family had long since moved to the city. No one in the town took him in, no one offered him a meal, let alone cash to be able to take a bus into the city. No one wanted to help him. No one felt that they could, or should.
When half of the teachers at the school were let go, they started a protest. No mothers or fathers came out in support. They were left in the cold, protesting an injustice, unheard, and uncared for. No one felt they could help them, no one thought that they should. They all had so much to worry about for themselves.
More and more people fell on dark times like this, more and more people were left on their own. To face, a dark world of loss, alone, with no home, dreams, or hope.
People forgot how the land was truly won. People forgot what really happened in order for so many, to have it so good. People forgot that those that stand alone, fall the easiest.
They forgot because, they were told to. People started calling each other lazy. Pointing fingers, and breading hate.
In towns across North America, there is a warm wind that blows through it every spring, people gather, but they don't talk. Expecting parents scowl at the behavior of others, afraid of the world that they are bringing new life into. Children, already with us, are no longer seen, and are especially not heard. They are inside, despite the warmth. They are imagining what they are told to. They are dreaming dreams that belong to someone else. New loves, and old ones, will look at each other, doubtingly. Always afraid to lose each other, knowing that they could, at any moment. Afraid of a future unknown, that will become a present, despite themselves. All while a warm wind blows in. None of these things, and more, are known. And none of these things, and more, are expected.
It is the way of things.