Aunt B. waxes philosophical on a Saturday night with this:

Who, America, is your friend?  Who is the person who loves you enough to throw his arm around you and tell you your best things to you?  Who is it that can reach you when you are so damn lost from yourself?

I just don’t know.

You’ve never been easy to love, punching your way across the continent, landing devistating blow after blow, even as you also so carefully raised your petticoats to keep them out of the mud.

Broad-shouldered and practical, deeply superstitious and rash.

A dreamer, though.  A dreamer, always able to be better than the men and women who dreamed of what you might be.

How long do we have to wait for you to come back to that?

It’s a good post and I find that a lot of us are asking the same question. But, of course, we aren’t as eloquent as B is on how to say it.