It feels like I’m hungover today on my morning walk through the neighborhood.

The fog has settled in, it hovers and hides what is in the street right in front of me.

The election placards on peoples’ lawns are limp and dripping from the rain. I can’t stand to look at them.

A bicyclist passes me and it makes me think of being 10, flying though the streets of my hometown, without much of a care. Is that when all of this started? When I let my hands off of the handlebars?

When I took for granted that things would go well. That government was good and democracy was forever.

I still want to believe that all of us in this country want similar things – clean water, good schools, enough resources for everyone.

But somewhere along the way, I stopped paying attention. Maybe I hadn’t noticed that the Dream wasn’t really big enough to include everyone.

And how we’ve been more divided than apart.

My generation was the Reagan years, full of the gluttony of consumerism and gross military might. We were selfish and we took too much.

And now what do we have to offer our own kids – no affordable housing, an insecure job market, negligent healthcare.

I paint things simply.

But last night, having dinner with friends, it was like a solemn wake, only one without a body. And what were we mourning? And to whom could we offer our condolences?

And now, this afternoon, my grandson is teaching me to be a bird. At the park, on the swing-set, he wants me to push him higher and higher, like he has wings – soaring to the top of the sky.

And with his chubby arms extended. He says “cheep-cheep”. And he says, “Look how high” and “birdie is so high in the sky”.

Over and over.

He laughs and I want him to feel like this forever.

A bright baby bird, with auburn hair flying – fragile, but brave.

I’m free, he says.

I’m free.