The brilliant blog 0007

The first time I raised a flag by myself the front porch, the halyard burned a bit in my fingers. It used to be July humidity, the kind that makes cotton shirts follow your returned, and the rope became rough from years of weather. My grandfather stood in the back of me, leaning somewhat on his cane, staring at each stream. “Don’t simply dangle it,” he observed. “Fly it such as you mean it.” That line has stayed with me. A flag is fabric and thread, sure, howev