The first thing I notice is that my American Express card is missing from my wallet.
Not too concerned, I check the side pockets of my purse, the space between the front seats in my car and the pile of campaign paraphernalia splattered across my dining room table.
I can’t remember the last time I had used it, but I seem to fuzzily recall plugging it into the gasoline dispenser at the mini market down the street a few days before. I drive back, ask the cashier, peruse the parking lot. Nada. And with nine million calls to make, canvassing commitments and letter writing duties – all connected to my son’s run for mayor of Tampa – I kind of forget about the frustrating card disappearance.
I do remember, though, not to share the card loss with my husband – who would have been aghast at my carelessness in not immediately reporting my card as missing.
Election Day arrives dank, dark, cold and rainy. I stand out for four hours at a key precinct – a fellow mayoral candidate beside me.
“Few voters are making eye contact,” I remark to him casually.
“Not a good sign for either of us,” he answers.
We continue our vigil – becoming better acquainted, but more subdued.
The election results – though dramatic – are not surprising. The frontrunner – Jane Castor – almost wins the mayoral spot outright with no run-off – pulling close to fifty percent even with seven candidates in the race.
The richest man in the race – the one with blanketed name recognition and no budget constraints – comes in second. He is 1600 votes ahead of Harry, who is a close third. The richest man in the race outspent my son by thirteen times.
Comments, remarks and messages come pouring in – all centered on the same theme:
Harry ran an exemplary, substantive campaign laced with civility and devoid of negativity. Being the youngest candidate in the race, his future looks very bright.
“Sometimes you have to take a hit to advance,” I think.
My American Express card shows up on my front porch the following morning. No accompanying note. Just stark and striking, resting atop the black chair cushion. The mystery of its safe return unsolvable.
“And sometimes – even when you do absolutely nothing, it resolves itself perfectly.”
I guess that’s the irony of life.
No matter:
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris