I’m going back through my journals.  In February, 1990, I was taking a poetry class where we were given an ethics question.  If we could only rescue one from a burning museum, would we choose to rescue an old woman or a Rembrandt?  That day I’d been at a convalescent hospital where my son was playing his flute along with others who studied with a wonderful teacher. In the audience was a resident, a woman with only a few teeth who tried to converse with the man next to her saying “I hope we sing again.” Then, my son played and when he finished, she clapped her hands, and said, “It sounded like a bird.”

I think the choice of who we save is clear.  The vote is tomorrow.  Despite the interference of billionaires, may the results of what matters be overwhelmingly defined.