I stare at the dirty, white, linoleum square.

It’s late in the evening, and I should be thinking about getting my luggage and getting out of here.

But my thoughts veer off, down, and back.

And in a moment, I see into that linoleum square.

I see the likelihood that famous men have walked over this same square is decent.

I see the chance that billionaires have tread upon it.

I catch a glimpse of people of renown from other countries who have walked across it.

I see back farther.

I see back to a time when this linoleum square wasn’t there.

I see a dusty, asphalt street that wingtip Fords and Chevy’s drag up and down in the humid evenings, boys with their best girls beside them, out on the town.

I see this street stricken with silence when the news that one of its own was gunned down in another city.

I look past the asphalt street to when it was a muddy, bumpy road that horses and buggies traveled down. 

And, I see that forlorn day when a nine car train pulls out of the station, bearing, in one of the cars, its silent passage of grief. 

This street is packed with those come to see their fated champion off for the last time.

I listen now, because the street isn’t there yet. 

The world is a quieter place than it is today. 

I hear the gentle slap, slap, of the water wheel and the low growl of the grist mill as it grounds away at the day’s assignment.

I see men in while leggings and tricorn hats come to pick up the next months menu from the mill.

But I hear something else.  I hear the roar of musket fire and the agonized screams and moans from the lingering death those wounds cause. 

I see men, hit with cannon fire in the most basic of butchery and brutality possible.

I look harder; the evening is getting late, but I want to see all of it before I leave.

It is quiet now, and there is no street, and there are no houses, or great stone buildings. 

As the seasons come and go, I see Indians pass over this area, soft footed and sure in their direction. 

Katydids buzz, blackbirds chirp to their always there cousins, and at night, I hear a coyote calling, in that lonesome way they do.

I shake my head and rub my eyes, coming back to the present. 

I am looking at the white, dirty, linoleum square again. 

I make my way to the baggage claim and retrieve my luggage. 

In a couple of days, I’ll be back in this city after attending the wedding of a friend.

I’ll drive by the Washington monument, the White House, and the Capital itself. 

And then I’ll ask myself. 

Which age mattered the most? 

And whose footprints did I step in?

And will it make a difference, sometime, somewhere, when someone steps into my footprints?