Just before sunrise the next morning, I awoke cradled in carefree joy. The ocean washed away the remaining pandemic residue—the last smatterings of shock and fear released overnight into salt air. The dolphin parade mid-morning melted fourteen months into one deep breath of gratitude. Cleansing, purifying water baptized me. Primordial newness. Infinitely fresh. Always beginning. Romping dolphins played tag. Not it! It.
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When Lucille Clifton asks, “won’t you celebrate with me,” we answer yes. What does this Black woman decide when she finds no model for how to create her life? “what did i see but to be myself?” she responds. The poet fastens her hands and makes her life of “starshine and clay.” What does a boy from the staunchly-segregated south long to do before he dies? Jimmy Carter casts his ballot for Kamala Harris. Won’t you celebrate the 39th president with me?