Chapter Text
You will come away bruised
but this will give you poetry.
February 5th, 2017
Light like gemstones bouncing off golden walls and white ceiling. The soft of a blanket over wood floors under backs in a Sunday morning haze. The silliness of lying on the floor of the hallway, girlish giggles, two blonde heads touching.
“Look grandma, purple! Pink!” Charlotte’s little voice, her finger pointing at the shifting refractions.
“Oh, yes! It’s so pretty, isn’t it? And look - green and blue, too!” Sunbeams peeking through the windows shimmered through the chandelier’s crystals, coating the walls in colours shifting and dancing. Hillary reached out and grasped her granddaughters’ little hand, pressed a kiss to the palm. “You know, your mom and I used to do this when she was a little girl.”
Charlotte paused for a moment, deep in thought. Hillary turned her head to watch her expression, that young brain sparking. She watched her bright little mind absorb all of the beauty around them; all of the small things that the world often moved too quickly to see. That she had been moving too quickly to see, bounding from country to country, from speech to speech, campaign to campaign.
“That was a l-o-o-o-o-ng time ago, grandma,” Charlotte finally responded, full of conviction.
Hillary laughed.
“You’re right, sweetheart. It was a long time ago.”
Honest laughter had taken time to come back to her. Friends and family had come together, as they always did, to wrap her in love and support. There were tears, worse in the nights, at times deep and gut-wrenching. Fear for her country. Failure and guilt in waves, a feeling like suffocating. And yet, there was warmth to be found, even in the darkest moments. Grandbabies to kiss, long walks in crisp woods and hot tea after, hugs from her daughter, thoughtful gifts from friends, thousands of letters from supporters. In time the conversations with her husband late into the night shifted in tone; the darkness edged out by all of the light. On a late November night, curled up together on the sofa, Bill had whispered into her ear, “Fuck that orange motherfucker.”
And Hillary, finally, had laughed.
Quiet Sunday mornings had become a ritual, waking early to stroll the neighbourhood with Bill and the dogs, and then home to coffee, and his pancakes. Some weekends the kids would join them, sticky toddler fingers in maple syrup, Aidan in Hillary’s lap and Charlotte next to Bill so Chelsea and Marc could eat. Kisses on little noses, colouring books on the table. It was home, and warmth, and peace.
But clouds were gathering, and she could sense the darkness. A shift in the country. She had tried to warn them of what was coming. This is not who we are.
"Why, if you're dissatisfied, do you stay in a place?" Well, if you didn't care a lot about it you wouldn't stay.
She turned her head to watch Charlotte, who in turn watched the dancing light and shadows around them. Innocent and untouched by everything that was happening, protected from the dark clouds, from all the fear. She would blossom into childhood in a dark time. Her life would be shaped by it, in some way. Hillary felt a tear slip from the corner of her eye, felt it dampen the fabric under her head as she watched her granddaughter giggle and point, soft curls crushed against the blanket.
But Hillary would fight for her. She would go to the ends of the Earth, scrapping the whole way if she had to.
There's only the trying, again and again and again; to win again what we've lost before.
And she could feel something bubbling under the surface. That old rage. The white blood cells of democracy rejecting the virus of hate. The fever setting in, rejecting, resisting the darkness. ( It is often before the fever breaks, she had said once, when one feels that resurrection of hope in the midst of despair. A speech now twenty years old. So goes that timeless echo from the past into the present). She felt the heat of the fever in waves as she watched footage from the Women’s Marches, the protests at airports, the cries of the writhing, aching, pissed off people of this country. This great country.
One of the most tragic things that happened yesterday, a beautiful day, was that I was talking to a woman who said that she wouldn't want to be me for anything in the world. She wouldn't want to live today and look ahead to what it is she sees because she's afraid.
Chelsea padded down the hallway in her socks.
“Am I allowed to join this party?” She asked, beaming down at her mother and her daughter.
“Mama!” Charlotte called out to her. “Mama, come look at the colours with me and grandma!”
Chelsea nestled onto the blanket next to Hillary.
“How many hours do you think we spent doing this in Arkansas?” Chelsea asked, laughing. “Nothing changes much in this family.”
Hillary smiled. For the moment, she enjoyed these slow, sweet moments. The poetry to be found in each corner of her life, tucked away in the secret places, so often overlooked in the rush. Her husband reaching out to hold her hand, to stroke her hair, his soft kisses and warmth. Pulling her up, the way she had done for him so many times, and bringing her back into the light. Her family, cuddled up in living rooms or gathered around kitchen tables, filled with laughter and kindness.
Where there was fear, there was, too, a great hope. A hope greater, stronger, and brighter than anything mustered by fear or darkness.
Flanked by her girls, daughter and granddaughter, she felt herself filled with that familiar drive - to lead, to fight on, to protect them fiercely. Soon, the fever would break, and she would be ready to fight. It was all she could do, and it was all she was called to do. Do all the good you can, for all the people you can, for as long as ever you can.
She reached out and squeezed each of their hands in hers - Chelsea’s, so much like her own, and Charlotte’s tiny one. The light beamed upon them, that beatific morning sunshine, and the sound of children's laughter echoed in the halls. Nothing could touch this. Nothing could take this away; this beauty, this poetry. All of this love.
Fear is always with us, but we don’t have time for it.
Not now.
Always aim high, work hard, and care deeply about what you believe in. And, when you stumble, keep faith.
And, when you're knocked down, get right back up and never listen to anyone who says you can't or shouldn't go on.
― Hillary Rodham Clinton