Our worlds turned bad overnight. Trump’s snatching of the US presidency right from under our dull noses had everyone in dismay. Or half of us. “I guess this is who we are,” is how one of my friends sadly swallowed the bitter rift in a comment on facebook. With dry mouths we chewed on our flaking hats.
The sisters and mothers rushed to reassure the vulnerable that we have your backs with memes a-ready. Safety pins were to mark Friends not Foes. Some kept kicking and punching at empty air on facebook. Some assembled on the streets in defiance and fear. Trump tweeted “professional protesters incited by the media…unfair,” and then appointed some piece of shit associated with Breitbart media to Chief of Staff.
I was five months into grieving the death of my individual beloved. The image of a steam shovel dumping another massive layer of garbage on top of the one that hid my house occurred to me. In the literal realm, I had resorted to the environmentally thuggish practice of using ziploc bags to contain all the squalor that kept coming out of my cats, hour after hour, to keep them alive. Don’t count me out. I’ll just be standing here for a while.
Hatchet Fish 