Beautiful Mess

I've lived in America for thirteen years. I still have days when I think, that's it, we're through. Who could live with a country like this?

Then I wake up some mornings to the smell of pie baking, and she's gone and dressed all the little brown kids as pilgrims, and the little white kids as Indians, and it's all so sweetly absurd and sincere, that I fall in love all over again, and go on believing all the promises I know she'll keep breaking.