Election Day

I am twenty-three years old - in six days. I work at CAT with numbers and engine parts I never thought I'd have to understand, and I listen to NPR's The World every day on my way home. Marco Werman hosts. But he's in London now, which is too bad because I like his voice. He's covering the election.

There is something about walking on a chilly, drizzly day to cast your vote. When I left, the streets were black from the wet, and my umbrella pattered. My boots are too big - they thudded all rubbery, but it was the only sound above the rain. And something about being twenty-three too. As if people don't expect you to care. But you wow them. Because you do.
Even the air looked blue in the November twilight. The color of rain. And the color of cold. Leaves stuck to everything like they were pasted on, and my hair frizzed the moment I put down the umbrella.

Something solemn too. More than just a drive by. Than a roll down your window and place your order through the speaker.
Like everything else we do.
It is a walk. An every step, every block walk, in an oversized pull-over in the rain.

My town is small, and so there is almost never a line. I shut the curtain behind me. Read each candidate's name. Even the judges and governers who weren't running against anyone. I voted on everything except the amendement. Because I wasn't sure. And I didn't want to be wrong. And then it was done. I put my sticker in my pocket so I wouldn't lose it.  Walked into the same blue night, each step and block home. And I prayed for whoever wins.