I arrived in darkness, to the white brick church. Already, the gathering snaking down the uneven sidewalk, quietly murmuring from beneath its huddled silhouette, before reaching the gravel lot.
In the morning chill, curls of steam hang like question marks above warm coffee.
While the doors wait to be opened from within.
Of the many assembled here, I know just a few--
faces that have grown old since the years of ball games, Sunday school and holiday concerts.
The banker, crisply creased and spit-polished, his new car flanked by assorted pick-ups and a large rig left idling as we stand in the dark, checks his watch repeatedly. In black sneakers peeking from beneath a checkered skirt, a woman with long white hair, drawn back and up, stands in the comfort of her husband’s large frame. His gnarled hands, wrapped around the grip of a cane.
Beside them, young women with name badges on brightly-colored smocks.
We have all come here to cast our vote, this community of all shapes and sizes.
As the sun tentatively rises on this new day, the doors open.
This is the moment that captures America.
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