The line stretched the width and most of the length of the school. A man donning the coveted "I Voted" sticker pointed at my feet and said "When I was standing at that spot, I had an hour and a half left to wait." I smiled at him, and refused the bait to become irritated. He joked that he was running off to get a mobile coffee bar to park across the street and make his fortune. A few minutes later, someone suggested selling a spot in line to another voter. Ah, America.
I silently cursed myself for not having brought a camera. How will I remember each detail of this experience? How will I tell this story to my children?
An hour and a half later, I read his name on the ballot and carefully traced the appropriate oval before filling it in as completely as possible. The ink spilled dutifully out of my pen. I read his name again. Imprinted its presence on the page on my brain.
This. Is. Happening.
Choice. Hope. Change. Possibility. Challenge. With hundreds of my fellow citizens, I chose.
The woman at the ballot machine held stubbornly to my sticker until the count had changed from 437 to 438, then smiled at me and released it.
Now we wait, with bated breath.