I thought I would this year, but once again I retreated, grief-stricken because a misogynist was inaugurated. Too old to feel hope on a January day when a dear friend who supported him passed away.
My husband asked, like he did last year:
Montpelier, Greenfield, Northampton, here?
“Home,” I replied. “Yoga class. The farmer’s market,” but even that was too much for me, broken-hearted.
I sat across from the park with my coffee & eggs, wishing I could be among the PINK hats without angst.
“Where were you?” my son said when I arrived at the end. Together we sang with his teachers and friends.
But songs from the sixties glide over my pain. Maybe rap is the only thing to transmit all this rage.