whistle worthy

I went on a blind date with November 4th. November 4th wore a suit, a dress, a scarf, a beret, and sandals. He was a darling creature that the whole world was watching. And he was the whole world, at least at that moment to the people in Errigal 7063. We met in the kitchen of my flat accompanied by representatives of Germany, Ireland, Northern Ireland, France, Sweden, Belgium, Spain, England and the United States. They brought chairs, food, and spirits to watch the miracles unfold that night. We gathered around a meager black Sony television to listen to the American presidential election sing its tune.

The first few notes to flow out for this concerto were disappointing but expected. The British broadcaster examined the growing number of little red states, attempting to make sense of our convoluted system of voting. I missed Barbara Walters. I missed the smartly dressed Anderson Cooper. I even missed Geraldo. The BBC looped the same footage over and over of American voters "fresh" from bubbling ballots.

And then, the glorious blue state choir began to sing. The numbers grew in Barack Obama's favor, and as the sun came up, we wiped tears from each other's faces, saw stars in each other's eyes.