Rosa Parks

Streams of people, dressed in Sunday best, with long woolen coats and smiles on their faces.
A woman walking with a single flower, stem wrapped in tin foil.
A father instructing his children why they had come, why they would wait in line for hours.
They had come to pay their respects; they had come to pay homage.
They had come for Rosa Parks and what she had come to mean to each of them.

Suddenly aware of my own aimless running, I felt sweaty and unkempt, and vastly ignorant of the stories that carried them here.

I longed to join the crowd, to stand in line and become a part of the family forming on the West Central Front of the Capitol.

Instead I politely parted my way through the crowd and struggled to finish my run, to hold in my tears, to return to the safety of my dorm room.

I was witnessing something greater than I could understand and they were gracious to let me through.

Perhaps they had come to mourn, but it seemed to me they were celebrating.

And when all is said and done, I don't imagine we could long for anything more than that.