This post is now a eulogy. For something. I don’t know, maybe the dream I had for — what was it — 10 years now. Maybe my mother and my grandmother and your daughter and your sister. Maybe the girls who were gonna grow up seeing themselves there in the White House, ordinary as anything, completely free to dream, to swing their legs and think I could be President, I could run the country, I could stand on that stage and say yes. Maybe, honestly, a eulogy for the hope. That feeling of near certainty, we got this, do you think we’re gonna be okay, I do, I think we got this. On Monday night I felt like I might wake up to anything, a new day, something different, I really did, I feel naive, I’m sad, and I’m scared and I’m mad and I’m sad and I’m scared and I’m mad. Maybe for that feeling that maybe we would finally move the goalposts, have a president who fought some of our battles, finally get the next move on the chessboard and swing hard on the way down.
Hillary Clinton is not President of the United States.
But this is what she meant.
My problem with grief is its general shape. Grief is somehow both slippery and sharp, rolling over you with sadness then sneakily attacking your soft underbelly with its claws.
Molly Priddy, Feelings Rookie: A Canyon of Grief
Cozy boozy cider for you and your date person or your best friend or your mom or whoever IT’S PROPER FALL COCKTAIL TIME!
