11/6/24. The Morning After The Election

I was standing on concrete rubble in the middle of a war torn city. The sky was gray and cloudy, I felt aimless and heavy. There were many people around me but it was completely silent. I saw three people pick up a tattered casket. In the front of the casket was an elderly white man, on the right side was a middle aged black woman, and carrying the back was a young Indian woman. As they began to walk, the casket wobbled and jerked between them. I looked around to see if anyone was going to help. Everyone around me looked lifeless and still. I went over and held up the left side of the casket. We walked for multiple blocks, navigating so much concrete rubble that we could barely see the ground. 

There were people everywhere along our path but no one made a sound. We reached the crumbling foundation of a destroyed building, maybe it used to be a church? And there was a single wooden door still intact, protected somehow by a concrete archway. We walked down 3 steps to reach it and the elderly man holding the front of the casket opened the door.

The church was completely packed with silent onlookers. When we came in with the casket, everyone was staring at it. Our leader had been killed. 

We set down the casket in the entry. The elderly man was so incredibly exhausted. He went over to sit with his wife on a bench a few feet away. The two other women also left the casket’s side. I was leaving the church, back through the single door that remained, and I looked back at them, knowing I wouldn’t forget this moment that we shared even though I had no idea who they were. The man was huffing and puffing, looking down. His wife looked up at me and we waved to each other softly before I left the church forever.