15 more mornings.

That’s what’s left of this Salvador Dali fever dream. Of its melting clocks in a desert devoid of reason.

4 years ago I thought of the election, of the outcome, as the end of a long summer. I likened it to a change of season. It wasn’t. It was a step through a wormhole. We landed in the desert.

There is so much missing and wasted. Minds warped by fear and falsity, faith twisted and torn.

Parenting has been hard. It’s always hard but this…these questions…these images…this celebration of worst impulses, denied science, naked racism and hatred, has often left me lost. But we’ve done our best. Or the best we could muster.

We helped and learned and moved. Talked and talked and talked. We got tired and energized, put our masks on, and made our own map. We built sandcastles. And watched as they melted away.

Today was a fresh low. I hope I was right when I explained to my little travelers at bedtime that it’s the beginning of our journey out of this desert. Of the reconstitution of our time.