The Rural Resistance

My husband woke me on election morning, flipping on the hallway light and walking into the living room where I’d been sleeping.

“What time it is?” He didn’t answer as I fumbled for my glasses.

Later, I’d find out it was 2 o’clock. Our alarm goes off just after 4 am.

He sat down next to me, cradling one hand with the other. “I think I may have fucked us over with good intentions.”

It was not a white male premonition for how the election would end twenty-four hours later. He’d gone outside around 9 o’clock to transfer that day’s yogurt making from incubation to refrigeration and passed the barn’s wide-open garage door on his way back to our trailer. I have a moderate case of Raynaud’s Disease, which causes the blood supply to my fingers to decrease, particularly on chilly, drafty mornings. He’d decided to close the garage door…

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