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There are 35 days to go. I look out my window, and the trees are just beginning the beautiful turn towards crimson. The air holds a warm breeze, the rolling hills beckon, and all the pieces fall into place. Meanwhile, in Georgia, parents bury their only son, believing until the very end that the calling was just, for it was all they had left to hold on to. With each day their grip loosens, until finally it falls down the hellhole of lies.
There are 35 days to go. I prepare to take a short vacation, for our workloads have been heavy these past weeks, and we’re in need of some relaxation. The golf bags lie at the ready. At the same time, in Ohio, a father works three jobs to find food for his family, and prays the sickness that befalls his youngest daughter will not come back, for the hospitals and doctors turn a deaf ear and blind eye to the man without proof of coverage.
There are 35 days to go. On a clear night, my wife and I sit on the porch as the stars begin, holding hands and reading the other’s thoughts. After 30 years this comes easily. In Oklahoma, two folks sit on their own porch, wondering if their love will be legislated out of existence because in the minds of the bigoted few it fails Biblical Anatomy.
There are 35 days to go. I walk deep into the woods, the air clean with smell of the hardwoods, the ground undisturbed save for the wildlife that cares for it. In Kentucky, an elderly woman puts an oxygen mask to her lips and watches the huge shovels flat top the mountain where her parents were born.
There are 35 days to go. I volunteer to help, and ask that I be sent anywhere where I can do the most good. My workload will be heavy these next four weeks, but I had no choice.
Tomorrow there will be 34 days to go. How much longer could I wait?
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