About ten years ago, she approached me just as my opponent
had conceded defeat. She asked me, tape recorder rolling, how I felt. My smile,
for the first time during the campaign, was genuine.
“Can’t complain.”
About five years ago, she approached me just as I had left
the stage, having finished reading my prepared statement about the war. She
asked me, shiny political badge on her lapel, how I thought about condemning
millions of young people to die.
“Can’t complain.”
This morning, she approached my cell, smiling.
I would have complained, but the mob had torn my tongue out.
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