I’m in this line, feet heavy, soul dragging, wrapped around the library like a snake, past rows and rows of books gathering dust on wisdom no one’s cracked open in years. There’s an old man wearing a coat that’s older than me. He smiles at me with no teeth. A woman in a business suit, running a meeting on her phone loud enough for everyone here to participate. A girl ahead, pink lollipop, smiling, holding tight to hands that are older and wiser and, I hope, gentler than these times.
Ads ring in my mind, mud-slinging soundtracks for nightmares, campaign slogans etched in my brain like scars. All I wanted was a few quiet moments but that’s too much to ask in the month before November.
I watch the woman at the front, checking IDs, the lines of her face drawn with years and patience. “How’s your day?” “Just trying to stay out of trouble.” I grin. “Trouble just got here.” She laughs. For a moment, it’s simple, just people.
I’m angry, at systems that circle power like crows, but never drop a morsel down to the rest of us. Is this even for us? Are we all just cogs? Does anyone in this line see that, or are we content with blind faith that our vote will fix the fracture in this cracked foundation?
Finally, I’m seated, pen in hand, staring at names I know from yard signs, bad commercials, initiatives that’ll be gone from memory come Monday. Mark my choices. Make my mark. One small voice, drowned in a flood of others but somehow, still mine.
Then the sticker: proof I played my part, in the mess of it all.
All these voices here, murmuring their stories, their hopes, fears, silent screams. This is all we have, isn’t it? The ballot box, the check, the line snaking past dead words on pages, but maybe, just maybe, our whispers together make enough noise to shift the world.
So join us here. Make your mark. Let’s dream, that maybe tomorrow we’ll find a way to heal.