BRATTLEBORO — My president. Oh, my president. Where will I go to find answers, to find solace now? What will your legacy be as we slide down this dark corridor into the unknown? I will miss your voice. The voice of hope. The deep bass stutter of you, as you search for the truth.
What corner of this planet can I claim for solid ground? Where can the thoughts and dreams of a thoughtless American like me find purchase and grow? Create some small contribution for good. It doesn't seem enough to knit my pink hats, ride the train to the capital.
Shall I imagine a future, or will I make it? We are makers and builders, after all. I am a follower. I choose to follow love. Practice kindness. Listen more. Give more. I choose hope.
Will this unlikely spring thaw with its treacherous scrim of ice trick me into looking up into the damp, blue sky only to slip and fall? This future requires only that I pay attention now, plant my feet firmly, reach out to hold another's hand, search for love and beauty.
To take heart. What does this phrase mean? Do I take your heart? My heart? Ours?
Or is it, perhaps, just an idiom meant to say, “Have courage. My heart is open to your heart and we are not alone.”