Sorry this is a little late.  I'd written it and forgot to press 'Public".   I know I don't write much about politics.  But here it is - creative non-fic. 

You’ve tried to read everything about the candidates, in print and online, trying to be a well-informed American.  You have already decided where you stand on issues regarding Iraq, the economy, health care, climate change, and immigration.  And you have already decided whom to vote for in November.  But you wait.  What do you wait for?  For the nightmare to end.  For this election to be over with.  For the gnawing in the hollow of your bone to end that tells you how cynical the other party must be to think Americans, and perhaps more so, American women, will buy into their vice-presidential candidate.  Most everyone has an opinion on how well she will perform, should she become, God forbid, the next VP.  And you feel it’s moot to argue against those who have already made up their mind to vote for her anyway, in spite of the awful truth.  Perhaps they’re in denial over the very real possibility that she can become the president of these United States because their presidential candidate is old and has health issues.  Too many maybes.  All of these observations are abstractions, that is, until you see the much talked-about exclusive interview, where she is asked to explain her previous comments about Russia and/or her foreign policy experience and the seven-hundred billion dollar bail-out.  You watch repeatedly, your mouth wide-open, your brow a V, a finger nervously twitching across your cheek as your heart swells and shrinks, pumping out more blood, bad blood that can kill you if sustained for any longer than the length of the video.  As you look at her eyes, the carefully applied make-up, the pink jacket, the Hollywood glasses, a thought occurs:  why hasn’t anyone asked you to be a vice-presidential candidate.  Though you’ve never ran a state, the feeling that you have much higher political IQ than the actual candidate scares you.  It rocks the most important foundations you have grown up with.  And it doesn’t even matter to you that she is of the same gender as you.  You’ve seized to see her as a woman.  

You play it one more time.  This time with your eyes closed.  And you could have sworn it was a teenager speaking. (You don't mean to insult teenagers.  If you have, you're sorry).  You read the transcript. And you could have sworn it was a teenager speaking.  Then the final, "I'll try to find you some and I'll bring them to ya."

What do you wait for?  For the nightmare to end.  For this election

to be over with.  For her to become a mere footnote. 

our parakeet just died this evening.  She's our daughter's pet, really.  She was so torn up about it, cried for nearly half an hour, just gut-wrentching bawling.  It's hard to see your child like that.  But I couldn't do anything abut the pain she was feeling.  I felt helpless.  I did tell  her  it's part of having a pet.  And that she'll be ok and then be sad again.   It goes like that.  It's hard to comfort your child about this when you yourself are sad about it.   Our parakeet wasn't any less important than our bigger friends, like dogs and cats. 

Anyway, after she stopped crying, I suggested she write something about Suzy.  Without even thinking about it, she just did it. 

Here it is:

R.I.P. Suzy

I remember walking out of the store with a small cardboard box in my hand.  I was so excited to get home and open it because I knew that inside that box was a little parakeet—my own.  I would be the one to take care of her, and I would be the one that she could always play with.  Upon opening the box, I held her in the palm of my hand.  She was so tiny that she could easily get lost.  But despite her tininess, she had a huge voice.  She was never afraid to express her feelings of happiness, sadness, or whatever they may have been.  But all in all, Suzy was a cheerful, happy, and content bird who lived a wonderful life.  I made sure that Suzy was always pleased, and when I was younger, I used to play fun games with her—she never protested.  She was always brought with us on trips to Yosemite, Tahoe, and pretty much anywhere we went.  I’m deeply saddened about Suzy’s death and she is someone whom I can never forget.  And wherever she may be, I wish her nothing but contentment, joy and pleasure.  I hope you’re happy, Suzy.  That’s all I ever wanted for you.