I just watched Trump, who by the time this column runs will no longer be president, climb aboard Air Force One for the last time and head for Florida, where he will be just another strange, loud, old, white man.
I don’t want to think about the possibility of him coming back to Washington. Not right now.
And I don’t want to write about his disastrous presidency, the people who enabled his reign of ineptitude and cruelty, those who were motivated by it to internalize horrible sentiments and a litany of lies. I don’t want to write about the lies.
I definitely don’t want to write about the insurrectionists, who are still being rounded up, or Trump’s raft of scummy pardons that dropped late Tuesday night.
I’m not ready to unpack the last four years, not ready to turn the page, not ready to forgive and forget all those people who got it wrong, are still getting it wrong.
What’s the worst that can happen? How about that stock market? Her emails! All lives matter!
It’s a new day, and I can feel it… sort of. But after four years of political and civil whiplash, part of me is still waiting for another shoe to drop.
I don’t want to speculate on Trump’s nefarious plans. Nor do I want to explore the next phase of the impeachment process — the Senate trial, where they will decide if he is ever allowed to run for office in this country again. Likewise with the future of the Republican Party, which wears Trump around its neck like a gold-plated anchor that will sink until it hits bottom.
When it comes to Trump, I’ve been right about pretty much everything: unprecedented abuse of power, armed fascists in the streets, suffering on a scale that hasn’t been seen in this country since the Great Depression.
But I don’t want to gloat.
It’s a new day. Looks that way, anyhow. And all I want to do after four years of Trump is to unclench. Exhale. Let my guard down, if even just for a moment.
We’ll be back to business soon enough.