A lump in my throat.

Arriving forty-five minutes before the polls opened, I stood with my wife and others to cast our votes. Pleasantries were shared, but no one spoke about how they would be voting.  Our faces were worn, but not from the early hour. For over two years we had weathered debates of all sizes and tones, watched scathing advertisements weaving unrecognizable truth, and listened to speeches as stale as the can from which they were bought. 

In a few hours it would all be over, at least that was my sincere hope and prayer. Having lived abroad, I fell in love with my country at a level every citizen should experience, but the last few months had made that a distant memory. Yard signs were stolen or defaced, neighbors selectively greeted neighbors, and all of us dined on a feast of “we” and “they” until stumbling like drunks up the path to vote.

At 6:30 sharp, a woman appeared and announced:

“This polling site is now open. Voting may begin.”

Suddenly electricity shot through my body and washed away my disgust. I discovered my misplaced spirit. Excitement grew as I was ushered to my station, and as the volunteer left me to vote, a wonderful lump in my throat returned.

“This is it,” I thought to myself. “The moment when I do the single most important and powerful act of an American citizen: I vote.” No matter how fed up, exhausted, or bitter I had felt, standing there was a sacred privilege that caused me to stand tall.

Returning home, and thinking about the experience, I was not as concerned about my vote mattering as I was about the lump in my throat lasting.