It's inauguration morning and we're glued to our screens. I've been live-streaming it upstairs in my workspace, Stephen downstairs in his, me watching a lot of it through blurry eyes. Stephen maybe too. I think I started crying from the moment the doors opened on the Capitol, Harris started to emerge, a commentator began to say, "And here is Vice President—" and my brain automatically pinned that phrase to the man escorting her and then quickly remembered. No. She is to be the Vice President. She.
Now I've cried through her entrance, through the fabulous fire captain's recitation, in spoken words and American sign language, of the Pledge of Allegiance, through Harris' swearing in. Suddenly they're announcing that it's time for Biden to take the oath of office.
I jump up from my seat.
Like New Year's Eve: me upstairs, Stephen down, the two of us Zooming into a party from separate rooms, but at the end of the night, we met in front of his computer to do the countdown to the new year together.
I hurry down the stairs. Hunker in beside him. Me standing, him seated, I reach my arm around his shoulders, he reaches an arm around my waist.
On the screen, Biden has his hand up to swear his oath. Trying not to cry again makes my body tremble under Stephen's hand.
The swearing in goes so quickly. Now Biden begins to speak. Now he's done. Now he's President.
It feels like New Year's did: something terrible has ended, something better is coming. I kind of wish we each had a glass of champagne. For a moment I wonder if we should kiss like you do when the ball drops.
Crouching together in front of the computer like this is starting to get awkward. Stephen drops his arm. I straighten up. Chirp out a quick, "OK, bye!" He laughs as I turn to leave. Halfway through the dining room, I call back over my shoulder: "Happy New Years."
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