I asked if she had voted yet, she replied no. Shopping and soccer practice and dinner came first. She said she would do it tomorrow. The ballot sat on the table.
We took the square again, and demanded the dictator leave, and called for real elections. Secret police were everywhere, beating people, women and children.
I asked if she had voted yet, she replied no. The commute was awful, and the evening was for some wine, and a bath. The ballot sat on the table, under the mail.
A gas canister hit him in the face, fired from only feet away. He lost the eye, and most of his hearing. He marched with us again the next day.
I asked if she had voted yet, she replied no. She didn't really know anything about who was running, and the ballot was lost. The ballot sat in the trash, out in the yard.
The secret police attacked the foreign journalists, beat them, destroyed their cameras. They wanted the world to forget we were here. We are still here.
I asked if she had voted this morning, she replied no. The lines at the polls were long, and it was raining. She would do it in the evening.
We found our voice, and our will. If they refuse us a ballot, we will vote with rocks and bricks and fire. But we will vote, and we will be heard.
I asked if she had voted this evening, she replied no. She had forgotten.