I lit a fire earlier -- the cold rain made it perfect timing even at 4pm. The cats and dog immediately shoved me from the front row and started soaking up the heat. The kids were next.
I'm married today. A lesbian, in Massachusetts, no one has taken away my right.
In California, 18,000 couples have no idea what they are. Some have kids, some don't. A few months ago, they were dancing in the streets, celebrating finally the recognition of their right to what everyone else has: the ability to make a government sanctioned contract, under law, with years of legal precedent behind it. Some have dreamed of it since they were little, some never thought they would ever consider such a heinous crime of the patriarchy.
Yet there they were, with tears in their eyes, not understanding the power of the words, "I Do," and how those very words history, so deeply ingrained in the very fabric of their being would feel when they finally were able to say them.
My day was fairly ordinary. I met a friend, I folded laundry and in the morning I had a teacher parent conference for my middle son. I got gas for the car, saved a newspaper article requested by a friend and made all my kids practice their instruments.
In an instant, as has happened too many times to too many friends, a car crashes. A lump is found cancerous. An irreparable tear pulls apart two who thought they would be there until death do they part.
So far, for me? Not today.
I finally pulled the cats away from too close to the fireplace. The ziti is in the oven and about to come out. Everyone is done with their homework.
If my world ends this moment? I'm safe. My kids are safe. My wife is safe.
Not the 18,000 in CA.
Their rights have been kicked to the curb.