And in that moment, it no longer mattered that I was a republican.

Or that my mother only cared about small things.

Like whether the dishes were dry or if

the rosy pink paint looked better than the olive.

Because maybe her small things were just a distraction from her big things.

And maybe my big things were just a distraction from my small things.

Like whether I was pretty enough to get married

Or which college I should attend in the fall

Or if I should be a journalist or

a poet

Or if it was the democrats or the republicans

that were wrong.