Friday

The roses put on all their jewelry for us today.  Yes, it is raining.  Yes, there is some kind of crap in the city's drinking water.  Yes, there are last-minute calls made in the dripping breezeway of the Bi-Mart.  But nothing can disturb the quiet dignity of the firs and dogwoods in their new leaves, the trunks purple and dun in the slanting sunlight.  And best of all, we are ready.  Ready deep down.  And there is time for a drink, maybe two, on my own, with The Magic Flute playing in the background.

I change up to the 9th, Beethoven.  I want him in on this, this rare feeling of confidence and mastery.  The sweat dried long ago and I have no qualms, no doubts.  For now I am complete.  And the city is complete with me.  She and I will get along fine.

My family and friends are behind me:  a bundle of sticks you cannot break:   the fasces of office.  But today I am delegated to carry the family name, in that meld of the personal and public, the individual and the family, a union so old, so human.  And I am held up by it.

And by God, I do love her.

(Thank you Beethoven)