Today a middle-aged woman ran down a cul-de-sac'd street, under the watchful eye of tall firs guarding the neighborhood. That woman was me, worried I might slip on the wet wood steps of the neighbors as I hurried away to escape the answering of the doorbell I'd just rung. The flowers were from the grocery store, the one we all go to, but I'd bought several types and mixed them, and the cones that held them were made from construction paper, no different than my third-grade teacher taught us. I left a note on each, saying something nice I wanted them to know, that I'm too busy to stop and tell them during the week. I didn't slip on any wet stairs.
Ten miles away in my city of Seattle, protesters adopted black clothing and smashed what they wanted to. Then they changed their clothes and meshed with the crowd. They'd rung the doorbell and run, and this was the note they left our city.