Date Unknown
Place Unknown
It's a breezy autumn day. A day she would've liked. I think of her on days such as these.
Tall blades of grain wave in the breeze as I make my way through the field. The path is overgrown, but manageable. The bouquet in my hand—roses. Their thorns are trimmed and their petals are as soft as velvet. This pilgrimage is familiar to me, but it brings me no joy. It's a torment of a necessary kind.
The tombstone is easy to find. It stands at the highest point of the field, and beyond it, a cliff of jagged stone towers over the shining Atlantic. I approach with a heaviness in my steps. The ground beneath my feet feels hallowed, alive, saturated with her spirit and will. It calls to me with a strange and dark allure, as only death can.
But it's not so strange. After all, it's her.
Suddenly, her face appears vividly in my mind—so clearly it takes my breath away. As my vision blurs with tears, I close my eyes. She is there: her soothing voice, her thrilling touch, her beautiful mind. Tears slide silently down my face as I yearn. Yearn to be near her once more. Just once.
Her name falls from my lips.
And the roses fall to the grave, where the tombstone reads...
Here lies the United States of America.
A Great Power.
A Free Nation.
A Friend.
YOU ARE READING
Her Name Is America
Fantasía''I shall never be as powerful as the likes of you.'' France gave a reproachful hum. ''𝘈𝘮𝑒́𝘳𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘦, you are but thirty years old. I am well over eight hundred. 𝘗𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘦...almost three hundred.'' My eyes drifted downward, where Prussia's ar...
