A few years ago in Beijing a Chinese college student asked me,

“Is it really true that all Americans think that they are unique?”

The question set me back. Yes. This is the idea to which Americans live out our lives, that sings in our heads.

I think of the contortions we go through to imagine ourselves unique, to keep the beat, to hum along to the melody. We set ourselves apart from our families, flee our childhoods in suburbs.

Then someday you live to hear your father’s voice come from your own mouth. Every snowflake is still composed of ice, water. All of them will melt in spring.

Kindling Quarterly
Waiting for Funderburgh
By Zach Miller