What would it be like to be Barack Obama, so close to being the first African-American president of the United States of America? I mean really. Stop reading, sit very, very still, and try to imagine what that might feel like.
And Michelle? How does it feel for her, to have the guy she wakes up to every morning that close to being the first African-American president of the United States of America?
And imagine being Obama's grandmother, taking her last breaths, knowing that her little boy was that close to being the first African-American president of the United States of America.
My gosh, the accomplishment of being elected president at all is breathtaking, minus breaking the color barrier.
Quite often, dying people manage to hang on just long enough for an important event—wedding, holiday, birth. I thought about that when I heard about Obama’s grandmother dying. Maybe she didn’t want to know. Maybe seeing Barack come this close was enough joy for her and she didn’t want or need to know the outcome of the election. Maybe not knowing was preferable to the chance that she would live to see him lose.
We’re all so sick of this election, I hesitate to bring it up at all. But to leave it unmarked would be wrong. And I am moved by it. I am verklempt.
