We did it we did it we did it we did it.
The rock that's sitting on my chest for four years has shifted. It's not gone--the pandemic is its own stone--but the weight has eased.
Portland, Maine, is celebrating hard: downtown is crammed with people waving signs and dancing and playing music and honking horns.
Here at the Alcott House, we lit a campfire and cooked hamburgers and sat outside in the dark under the shadow maples. When Paul got home from work, we lifted a glass of Prosecco.
The joyousness feels like the end of a war. Victory Day. I know the Monster has plenty of time left to inflict damage, and that he will inflict it. But we'll get through these last months. We have won.
I thought I would have so much to write to you this morning, but I don't.
I was close to tears, at the sight of Kamala Harris in her suffragette white.
And Joe Biden's favorite poet is Seamus Heaney.
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2 comments:
Yes -- there is lightness in my mind, soul, and body now. Hope for my grandchildren. We, too, had a fire in the firepit last night. It was so healing to just sit with our tin camping cups of wine and watch the coals. Unfortunately, I have a lot of students who were very vocal about their disappointment on Friday. No outward celebrating in my neck of the woods, although I think there may have been significant secret rejoicing. And I get to see you next weekend!
Celebrations here are more circumspect especially as many have such divided families and friend groups. I too, worry about the bully who not only takes his ball and goes home, but who stomps on it just to make sure no one can ever use it again. But I am singing Hallelujah and feeling so emotional. I opened the good Bourbon!
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