Brass band, banner, smiling people, streamers, cheering.
I’d just stepped out the door to the building where I work as a wage slave doing data entry. There was a crowd of people more suited to a protest or picket, lurking. I made a move to step round them but each move I made was matched by this cheering, whooping crowd. I stepped right, they matched, left, matched.
One more mature black woman, hair back in a bun, came up to me, gently squeezed my arm and said “Well done, good and faithful one”.
Her face was obscured by my tears.