Writing Life

A Date with Democracy

That was what A said as we walked to the polling station hand in hand. It always puts a lump in my throat, voting, the sight of people making a choice, old, young, moms with babies, immigrants. This is a privilege and it’s an uncommon one in our world.

It was an old-fashioned process with pencil and paper. ID presented, my name was crossed off a sheet. The girl with pale green nails handed me a folded ballot. I took it into the booth (not curtained as in the google image today, but three sided cardboard on a table). I marked my X. I put the ballot in the box.

Nobody knows what the results will be. In our first past the post system, the percentages revealed by polls can’t call it. I have my hopes. But whatever the outcome, I am grateful for the fact that we choose and in 4 years we can choose again.


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