A moment to savor

"So … do we have to vote for the local races at our usual polling place on November 3?"

My husband is trying to wrap his head around the nuances of early voting as I follow Google Maps to the address of the only early voting location in the county. 

"No. It's just the same as voting at the church. They will give us our local ballot."

When we arrive, the line snaked around the corner and down the block.

For a moment, as we slowed to search for a parking space, I considered turning around and going home.

"There's still time," the lethargic voice in my head whispered. "We could come back tomorrow … or the next day … or the day after that."

But the Panic voice had been cutting into my thoughts all day: "What if we miss Election Day? What if we get locked down and lose our opportunity to vote?"

"They'd never do that," contended my husband. "They'd wait until the elections were over to impose another shelter in place order."

My Panic voice wasn't talking about a blanketed end to voting; it was personal.

"I mean, what if WE have to quarantine? Our school closed this week because of one case, and authorities are still tracing those contacts. Will election officials give Absentee Ballots to the people county health places into isolation now that it's past the deadline?"

Pragmatic voice might have chimed in to say that Emergency Ballots exist for just such occasions, but Panic voice couldn't stop circling the brain.

Panic voice doesn't have an ounce of Pragmatic voice's patience. Not that one could blame her, especially now that it seems Pragmatic Voice has been wrong about so much lately.

Instead, I slid into the nearest empty spot and parked. My Voice of Reason was nothing but reassuring as I stepped away from the car and started walking. "If you go home now, you'll just have a line of dirty dishes cluttering the counter."

The night was clear and temperate. A slight breeze met us as we arrived at the end of the queue; the wait was about two persons wide and more than a hundred deep as we stood, wearing masks, at twice our arms-length apart from the next carload of voters.

I tried to estimate time by dividing the distance we moved across sidewalk slabs by the number of people head of us.

We were quieter than usual. Both of us are trying to avoid speaking about the news and its hourly astonishments just in case a poll watcher might overhear and mistake the conversation as campaigning.

Instead, we played Name That Building (wrong answers only) and What's For Dinner (alternatively known as What Restaurants Are Open On Wednesdays)? We marveled at the city's lighting theatrics against the night sky. 

When we realized the lady with a badge was waving us through the glass doors and into the final stretch, it was tempting to turn to the people behind us and tell them to go on ahead.

As if they had a handful of items while we were in the process of buying everything in the store.

At this moment, it didn't seem like a chore as much as a moment to savor. 

They ask my name and find me on the tablet. I sign my name with all the precision an electric pen will allow. A ticket appears, and then a ballot slides out of a printer. I darken four circles with a fine-tipped felt pen, and, when I am ready, a man points me toward the scanner. I feed my ballot to the machine and wait until the screen blinks. SUCCESS!

I am back outside before I know what's happened.

But it's just me and the lady who had been behind me in line. 

Our husbands are still inside.

We laugh at the coincidence.

"Something tells me they are reading the directions on this one."