We were all expecting things. I for one was expecting some progress. I was expecting an ounce of justice. Walking on cracked, uneven streets, my feet found it hard to find a place that wasn't touched by people. A ghost people that echoed into my mind through their little broken pieces. The concrete slabs of houses were no longer such, tombstones to a dead they had becomes. A smelling pleasant candle entered my nose, the distant sounds of the occasional car and bird killed the drowning silence, and my eyes were numb. I didn't want to think about these ghost people, they hurt too much and thus made me hurt. Little broken pieces were what they left, the sidewalks now overtaken by green weeds were once children's' canvases, and the glass bowl was finding its pseudo home in a blanket of dirt. Why had the ghost people been forgotten? They spoke to me loud and clear, their words stuck like razors in my chest. These weren't just words, they had a palpable salty weeping taste. I un-numbed my eyes, we had left the whispering ghost people so they couldn't hurt me. I hadn't forgotten them and I'll try my best to explain color to the blind.
-Jordan Zieth
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