The dog across the street - he turns his back to me when I come out the door, and freezes. He doesn't bark. That's how he acknowledges my presence. Sweetie knows it's me. He doesn't care if my hair is combed, or my shoes are worn. He barks at passersby, but not at my abrupt appearance. In the past, friendly neighbor dogs used to run up to greet me, lick my hand, sniff my shoes to see where I'd been, and what other dogs had come my way. Sometimes they'd jump and let their forepaws rest against my legs or waist. But Sweetie just turns as though to say, I trust you. I don't have to watch where you're going or sniff where you been. You're cool. I can feel his inner salute.

Last year, I went to the Juneteenth Parade in Austin, Texas. There were lots of people and activity, folks sitting on chairs, fanning themselves in the heat, kids running up to the floats to catch a handful of candy and bubble gum. But the person I remember most was standing completely still. She wasn't even close or looking my way, but she caught my attention. She was small, crinkled with the years, and dressed like the Statue of Liberty, and I tell you what - she was vibrating with a kind of fury and strength, holding her cardboard torch high.