I wrote this about a month after the last presidential election when the future looked very bleak. The last line is still true: There is black ice.
The man of letters looks out over Lake Michigan, steam fog rising into the subzero air. We are stopped at a light waiting to turn left. I roll down the window and snap a series of pictures with my phone. I want the perfect photo of the man of letters but first a passing car and then a small sign get in the way. Later I look at the photos and find one that will do. I crop it.
All last week and this week, we pick up our granddaughter at her father’s house and take her to school. In the afternoon, we pick her up from school and bring her to our house and then she is fetched back home. It’s put me back into a routine I’d long forgotten, the having the be someplace every day at a certain time or risk the horrible realization that I’d left…
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