Thoughts On Voting With My DaughterSerge Bielanko
One of the coolest things about having really young kids is the fact that their lives are still a pair of hot dice just slow-rolling down through the air like a Matrix bullet, you know?
Everything that will ever happen to them is still out there yet, still out there racing towards them across the long vast savannahs of dark space and time.
I think about how every morning they will ever wake up excited about something, every tender kiss they will ever taste, every cell phone that will ever hum and buzz in their front pants pocket with the news that they have been waiting for, all of it, is still awaiting them in the long line of days to come.
Truth is, I can honestly say that I think that I am more excited to watch my daughter and my son living life now than I ever have been living my own.
This afternoon when my wife and I took our two kids, Violet and Henry, up to the firehouse to ‘help us’ vote for the next President of the United States, it wasn’t lost on me, man, that life is happening all around me at mach speed, and that even the simplest things that we end up doing are gonna be things that, someday, we will wish with the last battered beats of our sputtering hearts that we could do again.
Just once more, even if just for a few fleeting seconds.
Watching Violet run up ahead of me on the road, her curls twisting in the weak country winds, I knew that what was about to happen to me, to us, in the very moments unfolding around us was going to be more lovely and heavy and earth-moving than any election result could ever be.
Helping my daughter pull open the heavy door; talking to the nice people at the table with the registration books; eyeballing the curled-up papery snake of ‘I Voted‘ stickers; lifting Violet up and letting her tiny fingers push the buttons or pull the levers for me, her excitement driven not by party lines or promises made or debts or taxes, but rather by the fact that she is helping Daddy.
The way I see it, whenever I vote I’m mostly voting for the idea of more tomorrows.
Lots of them, I hope.
I like to picture mountains of tomorrows heading for Violet and Henry, tractor trailer loads of them, one after the other, backed up for as far as my eyes can see and then disappearing back over the furthest rise on the western horizon.
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