By Judith Harris
We walked five blocks
to the elementary school,
my mother’s high heels
crunching through playground gravel.
We entered through a side door.
Down the long corridor,
decorated with Halloween masks,
health department safety posters—
we followed the arrows
to the third grade classroom.
My mother stepped alone
into the booth, pulling the curtain behind her.
I could see only the backs of her
calves in crinkled nylons.
A partial vanishing, then reappearing
pocketbook crooked on her elbow,
our mayor’s button pinned to her lapel.
Even then I could see—to choose
is to follow what has already
been decided.
We marched back out
finding a new way back down streets
named for flowers
and accomplished men.
I said their names out loud, as we found
our way home, to the cramped house,
the devoted porch light left on,
the customary meatloaf.
I remember, in the classroom converted
into a voting place—
there were two mothers, conversing,
squeezed into the children’s desk chairs.
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Monday was as nice a day, at least in terms of the weather, as Sunday. We had work to do in the morning, then at lunchtime we went to take a walk at Tilden Woods Stream Valley Park, which goes under Montrose Parkway along the creek and I may or may not have discovered because of a Pokestop. We also had to stop at Giant and CVS, which may or may not have had Halloween LED lights on sale 75% off.
We caught up on Madam Secretary (which I always love) and Masters of Sex (I wish they'd stop vilifying Nancy for being smart and unconventional, they did not need to turn her into the Bitch of Life), plus we watched Supergirl (go Alex and go Lena) and the SNL recap of their election coverage. I'm petrified about tomorrow so here are photos by request of the FDR Memorial and its progressive waterfalls:
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