Through the Eyes of an Ex-American.
An old man walks down the streets of New York City. No, that wasn't right. He was walking down the streets of New Toronto. Yes, that was it.
He looks around from beneath graying hair with gray eyes. It was so much different now, better different. The place was cleaner, the buildings were cleaner, and the people no longer had the dirty look in their eyes should you meet them in a dark corner. It was better, he was joyful for that.
A young girl skipps down Flint, Michigan. No, it was Flint, Lake Province. She didn't like that name.
She had bouncy brown curls and gleaming green eyes and not a parent in sight. She continues skipping until she found the park she was looking for and ran in, making a beeline for the lone swing in the side. Hopping on she swung herself while looking around the city from the surprisingly good viewing area. It was so nice here, now. No murders, no bad people.
Her knowledge was beyond the years she looked. Not many would even know that this place once had a high murder rate. It was better, she was glad for that.
A teenage boy sat upon a bench in Las Vegas. He wondered why they kept that name. If they were going to change the city so drastically, why didn't they change the name?
He sullenly looks up from the ground and observes the the reformed city while sweeping his dark hair from his light brown eyes. The place was appartments and stores and grocery stores and nursing homes. Nothing like before, it was a place where everyone could help each other and live in peace. Not waste money.
He didn't know what to think of it. He supposed it was better. Better. So he decided to feel pleased at the progress.
A young woman with straight black hair and dark eyes walking down a Chinatown street.
A middle aged man with a balding head and tired eyes going to the nearest postal office.
A toddler with clear green eyes and blond hair gazing at the vast sea.
A small boy with dark blue eyes and messy ginger hair watching the other kids play.
All of them alone and watching.
A young man with bright blue eyes and brownish blond hair walked alone in Washington D. C. He sighed, he'll never get used to it. He walked alone in this city without that name, he can't be bothered to learn the new one. Well, the name wasn't new. It was quite old by now.
He walks and walks around, it's not the same. He doesn't want to think about what happened to his beloved statue of Lincoln, or his great Smithsonian Museum, or his ever-so-loved White House, or- he doesn't want to think about it.
He's changed since before. His still fingers absentmindedly push up the glasses that aren't there or try to smooth that ridiculous lock of hair that has fallen down years before.
But that's not all that changed.
His once sparkling blue eyes were flat, but ageless. They had seen a lot and that's the first thing noticeable. His once booming voice had become a soft spoken but still assertive, even coldly assertive. His obnoxious laugh was traded for a quiet chuckle. His bomber jacket was replaced with an inconspicuous blue hoodie.
He was different.
It pained him to see the old capital no more than the other cities. The only thing held here now was the occasional World meeting. On the fourth of July. It hurts him and hurts him bad. Even after they thought he was dead they still would hurt him.
It was a week before the fourth of July. Yet they were already here.
Lemon juice and picking scabs and never healing cuts.
But he's still happy for them.