When Tomorrow Comes

 I've been losing parts of myself and finding others during the months of silence at the end of thought.

It is a funny thing, as a writer, to put down one's pen or lift one's hands from the keyboard to just consider the ways of presence. I've asked myself if what I have to say is enough of enough to put into the world. If the thoughts are incomplete, unfinished, and inconsequential. 

My oldest son, my muse, has been telling me for years to write. He keeps telling me that my story, my experiences, the ways that I have overcome challenges and climbed mountains, would be helpful to a newer generation pining for elders.  

Age has creeped up on me in unexpected ways. My husband says we are not the elderly, or even seniors, even if the medical world wants to place that moniker on our charts. We both eat healthy (even if we sneak a few snacks) and maintain our spiritual, mental, and physical well-being. But age is doing what age does and one of the things it has been doing with me since May is having me in a state of contemplation.

I've certainly been in that space for the last 100 days or so when one candidate stepped down and a capable, intelligent woman with a vision made my sorority conference her first stop on the way to stand up for the nation.

And I had a giddy sense that we would come out of the long dark shadow that had been cast over us since 2016, since January 6 shocked our eyes and soul, even as far back as 2008 and birtherism. I was enthusiastic when I early voted and smiled with pride as my adult children, one-after-the-other, shared their pictures with their voting stickers. One is a first-time and two are first-time-in-new-states.

I wanted so desperately for change to be real and possibility to be tangible in my lifetime.

But, Like many, I woke up the day after the election with a tremendous sense of dread.  I didn't know the result at 5am when my eyes greeted the day.  I didn't watch the election results or go to the watch party on campus. I just wanted to sit with what my Empath nature seemed to already know - we are a nation deeply divided, that white-body supremacy will do whatever it can to maintain that feeling and that we will be in a long dark night as a nation trying to recover democracy.

But I hoped.

I hoped because my college aged daughter and her friends did all they could to turn out the vote and the young people answered the call.

I hoped because of my mother and grandmother and great-grandmother who prayed for a brighter day when their future daughters would have autonomy; the right to choose for themselves.

I hoped because of my granddaughter, my only granddaughter, and the tomorrow I wanted for her.

I hoped that the brighter angels would prevail.

So when my husband hugged me, I knew, without knowing, I knew.  We didn't exchange words, just held onto each other. And went out to the world.

I am a Chaplain Resident at a big, diverse hospital.

The grief was palatable. 

The black and brown faces held a silent vigil for what they know is coming, for the evil we know this country is capable of, especially for the African Americans whose ancestry has lived through the darkness.

I'm not sure about the days and weeks ahead.

I'm not sure how I will move on or function or "fix my face" to hide my grief, anger, disappointment, fear.

For now, I am just sitting vigil.

For myself, my daughters, my grandchildren, the world.

We will come out of this.

But for now, the body is numb, the stomach is in knots, the sleep is illusive, and the heart is racing.

For now.

But tomorrow and for the tomorrows to come, we will keep going. 

We must.