Confession: I’ve been looking for someone to tell me everything is going to be okay. Over the past two months, I’ve wasted hours watching astrology videos, reading blog posts. I want a promise. Assurance.

They all went on record with their predictions: Joe Biden. Gavin Newsom. Kamala Harris.

In the words my dad sometimes muttered, more often hollered, “Nobody knows sh*t.”

But I know some things.

I know that the morning after the election, after my bleary-eyed squint at the phone showed more red than blue, walking with Roxie, I saw a tiny pale blue cornflower, no bigger than the flattened nub of a pencil eraser. It had hung low and escaped the mower blade.

Then today, halfway through Pennsyltucky, walking along the broken back edges of turnpike motels, I saw more little cornflowers. They peeked between wide frosted blades of grass, their little hopeful faces turning toward the morning light.

I like cornflowers.

They grow despite circumstances.

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 Chewing the Cud of Good

Thankful for bananas, ready to eat in clean packaging.