The day after the election

The day after the election, my toddler son wakes up at 6:00am. He’s bright and awake. He is happy. Mom and Dad stayed up late, doomscrolling the election news, but he doesn’t know any of this.

I take my son out for his early morning walk around the park. It is November 6th. The fall foliage is not as bright as it should be. Many of the leaves look more brown than orange. The ground is dry and dusty, more like August than November. It’s 7:00am, but the temperature is warm. I am wearing shorts and a t-shirt, but still sweating. It should be cool outside. My son is pointing to dogs and people, and making happy sounds. He doesn’t know that the climate is changing.

His world is so full of wonder. Every fallen leaf becomes a gift he must show me, every stick a magic wand to wave at passing clouds. Every stranger is someone to wave at, and maybe they will smile and wave back, no matter who they voted for. The morning sun shines on his face, and for a moment I can almost see the world through his eyes - pure, simple, full of possibility.

I carry the weight of what he doesn’t yet understand. The unseasonable warmth, the withered leaves, the world shifting beneath our feet. For now my son is protected. He sees only the magic of another day beginning. I hope that I can provide that for him for as many years as possible.

Our awareness, our concern for his future, is our act of love. We stay up late reading election results because we care about the world he’ll inherit. We worry about climate change because we want him to experience the crisp fall mornings we remember from our own childhoods.

I may not be able to fix the future he will grow up in. But I can give him the best thing I have to give: these moments of discovery and joy, these morning walks where every leaf is treasure and every stranger a friend. I choose to share in his delight at the world as it is, right now, in all its imperfect beauty.