107 Days

by Kamala Harris

It was two days after the first assassination attempt on Donald Trump.

Ha! Alas, it didn't work .

I couldn’t help but think of the Richard Pryor joke where his wife catches him in bed with another woman. “You gonna believe me or your lyin’ eyes?” he says.

Doug had wanted to stop sitting next to me because he got tired of me kicking him under the table when I asked a question and got a nonanswer.

I was born into a fight for freedom and stood in that tradition. Freedom to vote, to control one’s own body, to breathe clean air and drink clean water, to be free from the fear of weapons of war on our city streets and in our children’s classrooms. Freedom from anxiety about health care costs, childcare costs, a retirement spent in poverty. Freedom to afford a home, build wealth, provide our kids a good education. The freedom not just to get by but to get ahead. And the freedom to simply be.

Every night, he watched the video of Trump’s latest rant to see if he’d updated any lines of attack. He wore makeup to give his skin an orange tinge, tortured his elegantly graying hair into a facsimile of Trump’s cotton candy comb-over, and sported a long red tie dangling over his belt.

“There are many things that can only be seen through eyes that have cried.”