Voting day.

We are all hopeful. No signs of anyone wanting to start trouble, except the man in the “Let’s Go Brandon” hoodie. He wears it like a shield until they make an announcement about these things and he walks off. I did not see him return but I know he will, and I know how he is voting.

A yardman’s leaf blower hums, dulling the tension, softening the air. There’s a guy sucking hard candy making small comments about id cards. The lady in front of me is talking about volunteering. I’m guessing how they are voting too.

I’m got here a little after 8. I won’t be here long, but the line is growing – a somber parade. It’s unusually chilly. A few people are discussing the lack and need for more clothes. Occasionally there is small town road rage, which is just an extended horn at the intersection.

A lady behind me fell and crushed her shoulder. She’s had 3 surgeries and is looking at 10 weeks of therapy. There are a more few friendly interactions. A guy has the same shoes as I do. The lady in front of me makes decent green beans. She’s planning her thanksgiving meal and pleading her case to bring them. She has taken herself out the running for the macaroni and cheese. I can’t convey how big a deal Thanksgiving is. A collective effort in our homes. I think I know how she’s voting too.

I look around but do not recognize anyone. I am from here but I don’t feel like I am from anywhere. I could make a joke about Besto or Nutty Sweet Shop and I’m doubtful anyone would know what I’m talking about. It makes me sad.

Transition

I’m thinking of going back to school. Having time to think means more time to dream of things like this. What business do I have going back to school at 45? It sounds preposterous.

But then I remember Colonel Sanders, Tina Turner, all those over-40s who “made it” after society’s so-called prime age.

I’m nervous about the prospect, about reacquainting myself with reading, with understanding. My brain has been fed a steady diet of cake and ice cream—YouTube and Instagram—and now it’ll be asked to take in broccoli and carrots: books, essays, deep thinking.

I’m intimidated. Scared. I comfort myself with the thought that I might not even get in. I’m not special in any way—no eleven herbs and spices, no legs that should be insured.