Magical Thinking

     It was quiet. Too quiet. Too still. Not a leaf moving in the old maple on the boulevard and across the street, the neighbor's flag hung limply over the TRUMP sign, was plastered over the sign. The thunderstorm that had swept through overnight had cleaned the sidewalks, filled the gutters, and, now she saw, covered the offensive sign, the American flag itself covering what needed to be covered.

    She thought of taking a picture and sending it to...to somebody...the New York Times? the local Trump campaign office? the Harris-Walz campaign? with an appropriate title, "At Last" or "Democracy Saved." Well, she'd have to think about that.

    Was that too bitter, too mean, or obvious? What was the word? She wasn't used to these emotions, to the disdain, or was it the fear that rose immediately the day she saw Henry, the perfectly nice, friendly dad across the street, hammer that sign into his front yard and plant the flag next to it.

    Well, it is a lesson, she'd thought that day. You never really know a person until . . .until . . . She'd strained for a word or insight, something ...until they disagree with you, find a different answer to a question, a problem, a situation...an opportunity?

    "But this!" she said to the empty room, "this may be a sign, a good sign..." She couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't come up with what it meant, knowing that, actually, it meant nothing, the nation's flag covering the offending sign meant nothing, it was just a sign, a sign that represented the greatest threat to democracy in her lifetime.

    But, on the other hand, maybe the gods had spoken, and it was going to be all right.

    Magical thinking? Perhaps, but she felt better already.