Five

I wonder when the revolution will come.  I walk by the homes with the perfectly manicured yards and I wonder when they will all be set on fire.  Will they know that inside, I am one of them?  Or, will mine go down in flames, too?

Despite the pending revolution that I'm convinced is closing in on me, I can't leave.  Could not dream of leaving.  Ok, I can dream of it.  Do dream of it often.  Of leaving.  Walking away.  Or driving away.  Far, far away.  Of course, the eternally wise Harry Chapin reminds us that "you can travel on 10,000 miles and still stay where you are." 

I used to drive by houses just like this one and wonder what it'd be like to live in one.  To have a comfortable life.  To take beach vacations.  To take any vacation.  To do more than work a 12-hour shift and then another just to have barely enough. 

Of course, I deserve to be here.  I went to college and beyond.  I worked hard (and still do).  This is what is supposed to happen. 

But my heart is not here.  Not today.  Not tomorrow. 

Ok, in fairness, a big portion of my heart is here.  And this is the place I chose.  I chose it by opening some doors and (forever?) closing others.  I walked a path directly here.  To the place where the fires will burn big and bright during the revolution. 

Ours will go early, because we are close to the homes of those most justifiably angry.  Close enough to taunt them with what they cannot have.  Close enough that they drive by every single day on their way home.  And dream.  And spite.  And say to themselves that when the revolution comes, they're going to burn us down to the ground. 

We taunt them with family budgets that include sprinkler systems running day and night, luxury cars from Germany and Japan, high-end security systems, a carefree approach to shopping. 

We see them at the restaurants on Sunday and we tip them small amounts.  We mumble about not understanding why people have to be tipped.  And say things like it's their fault they got this shitty job and why is it my job to give them tax-free income? 

We make them take our groceries to the car, we complain loudly when we're not next in line, we yell at them because they didn't award our child the grade we know she deserved. 

We laugh at the sad, aging cars that carry them on their way.  We point out glibly that we give to the local food pantry and toss away our lightly used polo shirts to Goodwill.  We don't even take the tax deduction, we're so generous. 

And so, when the revolution comes, we'll burn.  Or at least, our houses will.