The Voter Across the Aisle
I have set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth. —Genesis 9:13
My right to feel safe from a stray bullet versus your right to feel safe carrying a gun. My right to make personal choices versus the choices you think I should make. When we vote we see someone who worships at a different altar. Not the person who buys food for a neighbor or takes an elderly aunt to the doctor. The voter across the aisle is a foe to unfriend on Facebook, delete from our cell phones. We stay on our side, glaring. Pray for a flood to wash the wicked away. We forget that the sign offered in the clouds after Noah’s ark was a weapon of war, turned upside down. Could it be time to consider arrows not aimed at each other? Pause to admire so many different colors sparkling side by side.
The Neighbors’ Dalmatian
Back in Nashville, long before leash laws when dogs were allowed to roam across yards, the next door neighbors had a Dalmatian who peeved our yapping toy poodle. We were small dog people. The neighbors liked them big. And their Tommy’s tendency to jump unnerved us. “Tommy likes to greet people,” the neighbors grinned, as we stepped back. Sometimes I couldn’t fall asleep imagining that spotted monster pouncing on my precious Pickles, her fluffy curls flattened beneath the bigger dog’s teeth. But the neighbors’ Dalmatian never bit my poodle in the five years we lived side by side. Something to recall when judging others who don’t vote for the same breed of canine that I do.
No More Sorrow
She didn’t say he was in a better place, or ask me to trust Heaven’s inscrutable plan. She touched my shoulder and wished me no more sorrow. No more days adrift, mourning like that mother whale who carried her dead calf for a thousand miles. She hoped I’d see color again. Perhaps the pink shoes in my closet or the orange daylilies overgrown in my yard. That I would once again greet sunlight curling under the curtains. Taste honey on a corn muffin. She wished me no more sorrow and gently lifted my grief.
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