A poor photo of a worn piece of paper with a hand-scrawled number.
It means nothing. Bad writing. Bad photography. Bad paper.
It is the piece of paper handed to me by the people who verified my photo ID at the polling place. It is my precinct number. It is the piece of paper I handed to the person who set the voting machine to the right precinct.
Looked at one way, it is not worth looking at. Looked at another way, it is to die for.
People did. People are. People will.
There are a couple things worth more than the privilege of voting. But as I stood at the machine and felt unexpectedly emotional, I was reminded that there are only a couple. And as much as I liked the free coffee, coffee isn’t one of those things.
Take the time. Get the piece of paper. Push the button.