I wonder if we will remember all that must be restored.

 I'm wrapped in such a sense of anxiety. Time cannot pass quickly enough. It's like the last days before the baby is born. I remember that feeling, rising through my body. It was there before my divorce was final, before my mother died.

Watching this year's events unfold, that sense has started up in me often, and I've sent it away. Literally tell myself "Stop this. Get on with something else!"

The last few mornings, I've read the news summaries in my night gown. The first morning was to assure myself the President still was alive.

My home town paper scrabbles along, and I subscribe on line. A while back I cut back to one big city paper and chose the Washington Post. I don't know why I picked it over the New York paper, and all that matters is my attempt to keep abreast.

That home town paper is Akron Beacon Journal, known affectionately is the Reekin' Journal. The front page story today is early voting, written in their sad, human interest style. The line is a two hour wait. One of those public interest groups spawned in my kind of home town advises the elderly and infirm to bring meds and water and juice.

The rest of the story, on an inside page, drops my explosive. Instead of the usual 150 booths, there are 50. The cause is the pandemic.

I won't go into any of my solutions. There is one. There are many. It's too late, and no longer the point.

I wonder if we will remember the entire list that must be restored.

This is not a third world country. It is one of the longest surviving and improving democracies on the planet. There have been setbacks, we've lurched forward. The latest setback is the whole of the anxiety, the foreboding.

The questions are the answer. How many poor people does it take to make one rich person? 

I don't know. I'm going to weave now.