It has been my scheduled intention for several weeks, to avoid writing about the inauguration. “Everyone will be writing about it,” my husband said, and I agreed with him. Besides, I feel immensely unqualified. Like I haven’t read enough James Baldwin and I‘m pretty sure I failed political science somewhere. In other words, if Alex Trebek asked me to elucidate the themes in Baldwin’s “Notes of a Native Son” or how long James A. Garfield remained in office after his inauguration, I’d look pretty darn silly on Jeopardy. So I chose something a little lighter. Something deeply unimportant. Something along the lines of why my husband purchased, wrapped and gave me fuzzy coat-hangers for Christmas and genuinely believed with every bit of his loving, obtuse, little heart, that I‘d like them.

Because Life and Inspiration are always unsolicited and tend to show up expecting a light supper when we’re getting in the shower, I’d almost finished that bit about the coat hangers around the time the pre-inaugural coverage was beginning to pick up speed with the motorcade of Cadillacs. I put my kids on the living room sofa so we could all watch together and within 30 minutes, maybe less, I knew, it would be hopeless to write about anything else. “The whole world is watching this moment,” I said to my ten-year-old son who looked at me with boldfaced doubt. I shushed him before he could say anything about time zones, Australia and remote regions without electricity and let the moment happen.

There are so many enduring images, I scarcely know where to begin. There was, of course, the Obamas’ poignant walk with Former President George Bush, who, along with Former First Lady Laura Bush, bore expressions of weary yet dignified and unambiguous relief. I could comment on Michelle’s dress, which was lovely, or how I’m anticipating the myriad of ways Malia and Sasha Obama will soon take over the White House and fill its halls with all things irrepressibly young and true and right and good. I could say something about the music, the legendary Aretha Franklin, her hat and how Yo-Yo Ma managed to play that cello without looking even a little bit cold. I have thoughts about the poet, Elizabeth Alexander, who really wasn’t scheduled kindly to allow most of us to fully appreciate her talents. I could even say something about that humorous benediction and the smoothly-concealed, “uh-oh” exchange between Supreme Court Justice John Roberts and President Obama that has already being analyzed to death. But none of those things, remarkable, thrilling and indelible as they are sure to become, are what will remain with me from January 20, 2009. Nope, what stood out for me was a single, silent and unhurried tear.

I can’t tell you if the tear came from a man or a woman because the camera only glanced off the face for the briefest instant. Neither can I tell you if it was before or after the president took his oath. I can only confirm that I saw it, and the face wasn’t young, or old, but seemed somewhere in between. What was in that tear? Was it a joyful tear that this day had finally come? Or was it a tear filled with an unrelenting sadness that this moment took a slow and wounded time?

I believe it was both; and so much more. I believe it was the human evidence of something deep and hidden, some cherished hope that had long ago been prepared in a secret place and probably abandoned time and time again when reality provided so many ugly obstacles. I’d like to believe it was the tear of the day that wasn’t supposed to happen at all, and lo and behold, it finally did. How many of us experience such a day? When that dream we’ve dreamed with everything we have and all of who we are, actually comes true? Not many. And not often. Not often enough, anyway.

I won’t remember the cannons or the crowd or any of the commentary including my own, but that little tear I’m keeping. It leaves a little trail of hope for all of us, that the noblest of our desires just might be possible, someday, somewhere, somehow.