How uncommonly fortunate I am to have called the house pictured here home for 55 years. Somehow this simple dwelling, resting atop a hill on a quiet dead-end street, offered a home to all who swung open the back gate. Generations counted on the music of the unlocked kitchen door’s jingling sleigh bells accompanied by barks of happy dogs. Every time. Across time and place, memories stitch all of us together.
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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?