I hurry through the morning’s chores;
today is special as I am to pick up my daughter
at the bus stop, she’ll be home from college up north
for a week to plan her wedding.
We have a lot to do we say after
we hug in the car once she’s jumped in and we
stop at a craft store to look at tea lights
for the tables at the reception. She’s so glad
to be home she doesn’t mind that the next stop
is a protest in Hudson. The governor is visiting
a local business to tout his budget and I disagree
with it, a lot of us do, and we gather to say so,
holding our signs and stamping our feet against
cold. I know a lot of these folks, greet a few friends
here and there, neighbors, and we catch up. They
are happy to see Marian, ask about the wedding
plans, we tell a few jokes, read each others’ signs,
wish it were warmer, and and join in a chant
when the governor arrives—ignoring us—
to rush inside.
Then we’re off to Home Depot, where we see
some other wind-chapped, familiar faces from
the protest, all of us looking for cat litter or nails,
some kind of paint. Grocery store next, then home
to make up a guest list, pet the cat, start a load of
laundry, do the chores, make dinner. On the radio
we hear about the protest in Hudson, what the governor
said about us, a bunch of out-of-state extremists.
