Time: the near future. An Old Man sits on an old chair, part of an old patio set. His grandchild, Harvey, jitters about, doing this, kicking that, poking the anthills. They talk:

Harvey asks, "You remember President Obama?"

"Indeed I do."

"Huh."

Harvey squares up and kicks a soccer ball absently across the patchy lawn.

"Wow," he says, "The First non-White President!"

"Ya-hunh."

Harvey runs after the ball, kicks it back toward the porch. The ball arcs through the air, clangs off the table, missing the Old Man by a foot or so.

"Sorry!!"

"He shoots; it's wide!," the Old Man calls out.

No harm, no foul, he thinks. Harvey comes charging back to the porch.

"So. What did it feel like? To vote like that?," asks the kid.

"Vote like what?"

"To vote! For him! What was that like?"

"Well. I didn't vote for Mr. Obama, son."

"What?! No? Why? I mean, why not?"

"I liked another guy better for the job."

"Whattya mean, grampa? What other guy?"

"Well. You know not just one guy runs for president, right?"

"Well yeah, but. Sheesh! How could you not vote for President Obama?"

"Oh. There were all sorts of reasons; there sure were. None of them are really important, now. Not now. Mr. Obama won. He got to be the President."

"But then?"

"Then, what?"

"The reasons! Why? Were they important, then?"

"Welll..."

"I mean grampa! The First African-American President! Sheesh!"

"Son; are you going to vote for a man just because he's this or that color?"

"Welll..."

Sometimes Harvey sounds uncannily like a tiny version of his grampa. He says

"Not cause a his color; no."

"You going to vote for something just to be Part of The Moment?"

"Well, sure! I mean — sometimes, don't you?"

"Not so much anymore. Remember the Dodger game?"

Harvey lights up, after blinking a moment at the sudden change in subject.

"Yeah!"

"I'll take you to a ballgame, kid, if I want to be Part of Something. Now that's something."

"I liked the game. I had two hot dogs!"

"But you vote because you think a guy is the best guy for the job. And sometimes — more people think some other guy is best. It happens."

"Well I can't believe you didn't vote for him, anyways!"

"Yeah. Well. He turned out okay, I guess."

"I guess!"

"The sun is out, it's not too hot, and you're here. That's something."

Harvey spins around, idling. He hops to the end of the porch; crouches down, balanced over his shoetops.

He stares at a spot on the ground for a few seconds, and a few seconds more.

"Hey!"

"Yeah?"

"Ya think these ants are biters?"

The Old Man shifts in his seat.

"Well now. Are they mostly red or mostly black?"

A couple of swifts fly over the yard.