The village post office.
Talking to Myself Fifty-Seven January 10, 2021
I live in a democracy, which some
discount, including our president.
We want him gone. He still has
ten days, but how much damage
can he do? Too much, we fear.
The one we want is waiting in the
wings, waiting his turn. He was
elected. Some cried that our votes
didn’t count. So many absentee
votes made a difference. It was
the lawless crowd we worried
about. No respect for other people,
no respect for our democratic
traditions. An old man in the
post office leered at me, came
close. “How you doin’, honey.”
I kept going. I had packages
to mail. This was not the Capitol
building in D.C. This was in the
village post office. When I’d
mailed my packages, he was
gone. The signs said to stand
six feet apart. He was not even
one foot from me. Gone when
I came out, yet, in reality,
how far away?