It’s November 5, 2016.

The Donald’s face flashes across the screen and for a fraction of a second, I catch a rare glimpse of authenticity.

His eyes soften. Do I see some sort of fragility?

The media is chanting Hilary’s most certain ascent to the presidency.

Am I seeing Fate write across the Donald’s face and that of the entire country?

Fate has a strong signature and I see strong writing.

Hilary is projected to be the ultimate winner. Even the Donald seems to acquiesce to the Hilary mania.

But for a fraction of a second, I see Donald light up like the Sun. Bing. Bing. Bing! Winner here!

The rest is history. He became our 45th president for better or for worse because as Fate would have it there is a reason for everything.

It’s July 13, 2024.

For a fraction of a second, he turns his head suddenly, possibly dodging a fatal bullet, only to rise like a phoenix chanting, “Fight, fight, fight! Fate seems to be alive and well.

October 25, 2024

So here I am feeling the new election out.

Will the Donald become our 47th president?

What do I see? Any softness is gone.

What do I hear? Women rising up to take back their power.

What do I smell? The burning bodies of Palestinian fathers, mothers, children. I hear the wails of the families of the Israeli hostages. I smell the fear of widening war.

Do I smell the curious scent of Fate here?

No. No, I don’t. It seems curiously absent. But maybe, just maybe it’s too early to catch a whiff of it.

What I am getting is…

It’s up to us now. We decide. Will the cult of Trump win this one or will Kamala, the woman of color, champion of re-productive rights and the rights of everyday men and women triumph?

In the description of the meaning of Fate, in the tiny writing at the very end almost imperceptible to the naked eye are the words,

“At the end of the day, Life is a Surprise Party.”

Yes, I know. It is curiously uncomfortable.

We’ve turned the evolutionary page on Fate, folks.

It’s a New Day.

And at the end of the day,

We choose.