The stakes couldn’t be higher.
There is no way to prepare.
So we don’t.
I need him to be the answer.
Last time we threw parties.
We had cupcakes with
Her name on them.
We bought champagne.
I am putting my faith in him.
This year, we hold our breath.
We throw no parties.
We keep our expectations measured.
We have PTSD.
We dare not hope.
I am counting on him making this all better.
We want to be in a safe house with Rachel Maddow,
Charles Blow, Heather Cox Richardson, Rebecca Traister.
We want Stacey Abrams to answer our anxious calls.
We want Chris Hayes to stop by for a beer.
We want to be on a Slack channel with Jon, Dan, Tommy and Lovett.
We want to be nestled on a couch between Michelle and Barry. I mean, always.
I dream about how having him would allow me to breathe again.
We want a crystal ball.
We want a guarantee.
We want a landslide.
I want him.
So I “Proceed to Checkout.”
November 3rd will be the date of delivery.
And on that day—
that day,
that terrifying, unknowable, dicey day—
I will finally have him.
