Who is this John that I write about?
His blood, diluted by 300 years and more, runs through my veins.
Will that help me to know him? What did he dream of? What did he dread?
He crossed an ocean after losing everything, yet so many others stayed.
What drove him across the water? A quest for significance? Dreams of feasting flames? Simple family duty?
He lived, laughed, loved and thrived.
Did he ever look eastward toward his past and wonder ‘What if’?
Did he look westward toward the future, where his grandchildren and their grandchildren would set down roots?
100 years after his Atlantic voyage, his grandchildren and great grandchildren fought for independence.
Did the seeds of rebellion lie dormant in his heart? Did he cling to king and country til they laid his body down?
Who is this Sarah, who loved him and bore him sons?
Her blood rushes with each beat of my heart.
She was a child of independence, a new life in a new world.
Did she walk pristine New England woodlands? Did she huddle in her home?
What did she think of the land her parents fled? What did she see in the man who stole her heart?
Fresh from the shores of England, did she welcome him or offer scorn?
Did her parents arrange the union? or did her heart choose its course?
She bore him children, some lived, some died.
Did she thank God for the moments they breathed or forever mourn the ones who ceased?
Who are these people, who yet live through me.
I write their story to answer these queries. To know what came before and wonder what will follow me.