There is not a cloud in the sky, the sun is shining like a bright light, and the grass looks as green as the artificial turf of a high school football field under the glow of powerful lighting. The road ahead is long and flat, it is also dusty, which makes my eyes water and parches my throat. I would do anything for some water, I think to myself. So I reach for the water bottle on my hip and take a drink of the cold, clear, clean water. And it is refreshing. I have a long journey ahead of me.

And I have a long journey behind me, but the one ahead is longer, or so I hope. If I die tomorrow then the journey behind will have been longer, and that will not be good, especially because I do not want to be dead. If I am dead I will not be able to refresh my parched throat with that cool and clear water.

There is an old man a few hundred yards ahead of me. I can tell he is an old man because he is dressed poorly, and because he is limping badly, and because he has a cane, which he is using to help himself walk. I hope he is not from another country. But if he is from another country I hope that he can speak good English. Sometimes when I am talking with people who do not speak good English I feel embarrassed because I cannot understand what they are saying. Mostly when I feel embarrassed I do not feel embarrassed for myself, but I feel embarrassed for them, because it is they, not I, who is having difficultyarticulating. I cannot speak Mandarin Chinese, or French, or Russian, I admit-but this is my country, blast it!

I am an American and I am on a journey. I am walking along dusty streets, upon smooth pavements, and atop tree-shaded footpaths, and I am going to see America, the land of the free and the home of the brave.

I graduated from a prestigious university in '76 and I have been crunching numbers ever since. I have three children, a wife, two houses and a cottage, and a vivacious personal assistant named Cindi. I wonder. Do they miss me? Do they even know that I am gone? Cindi does, I imagine.

When Cindi comes into work she brews a pot of coffee. She does not drink coffee, but I do, and one of her nice habits is to supply me each morning with a fresh cup of steaming gourmet coffee, that is imported. Today I did not go into the office, but she probably went, because it is her job, and she is twenty years old and single mother of four. She probably made coffee for me, but I was not there to drink it.

I wonder, who will drink the coffee?

I am going to see America and I have brought my dog, Henry David, along with me. I have a slung across my torso a small and trendy sling bag in which I am carrying all of my supplies. I am carrying a book about nature, a book about cross-cultural integration, a toothbrush, a small inflatable pillow, and a pair of rubber galoshes, and a lot of cash.

The old man has stopped walking and he is keeling over. Now he is writhing on the ground, and low guttural sounds are coming from deep into his throat. I am one hundred feet away from him. I am running toward him as fast as I can. Henry David is running alongside me and barking excitedly. And I am nearing the man now, and I am thirty feet. Twenty feet… Ten feet…

"What is wrong?" I ask him.

He looks at me, confused, and I can tell that he is not an American and he does not understand English. I am embarrassed, but he is dying, and this is no time to be embarrassed. I bend over and pick him up, lifting, as I go, with my legs. I sling him onto my back, and around my neck, like a feather boa. I begin to walk with him on my back. He makes more guttural sounds from deep within his throat, or perhaps those sounds are coming from deep within his stomach. I begin to jog. His guttural sounds are increasing in frequency and volume. I begin to run, and I am running like the wind. I can feel the cool breeze against my face and I can hear the crunch of the gravel beneath my feet and I can hear him grunting and groaning as he bounces atop my shoulders, and this is America and I love it.

LETTERS FROM READERS