Our Fragile Dream
It had already been a long day for me, and for the country, when I rode the train downtown to Grant Park on the night of Nov. 4. History was crowding against my thoughts -- my car was full of joyful, youthful, rock-the-vote noise -- as I looked out the window into the Chicago night and saw a bright orange (papaya-colored, really) quarter moon hovering over the horizon, beautiful and strange beyond reckoning.
I had never seen anything quite like it and was shaken with a sense of wonder: Where am I? Am I dreaming?