Dark impulses give way to thoughts of civility. Or not.

I’ve had all kinds of dark thoughts during the past week. I am a thinking sensitive being, after all, a person filled with kindness and empathy for all of my fellow humans.

Mostly, though, I am filled with hate for Trump supporters. H-A-T-E. How could they be so blind to vote for such a disgusting creature? And now, this narcissistic bastard will run the country supported by the House, Senate, and Supreme Court. And all of those millions in red states, some of whom I am related to, some of whom are my neighbors.

For now, I curse them. But I will have to find a way to live among them. I was at the grocery store yesterday. At least half of the adults I came across are probably happy with the election results. Not quite as happy as the guy driving the coal-roller pickup yesterday down Grenada, two massive Trump flags flapping in the breeze. At Publix, the middle-aged checkout clerk kidded me. “Someone likes ice cream,” she said, looking over my three smallish cartons of ice cream. “Not me,” I kidded back. She smiled. I smiled. The young woman bagging my groceries picked up my Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey and said, “Oh, I love this one.” I responded, “One of my faves.”

Outside, as my diminutive wife struggled to get me from the electric cart to the KIA, a gentleman stopped to offer help. I get no shortage of people willing to help me fetch an item from the top shelf or help me unload groceries. I would do the same for them, and probably have. I never stopped to ask them about their politics. I never said, “If you’re a Trump supporter, I don’t want your help.” I may think it later, as I am right now, but know it would be a terrible thing to spurn someone offering aid and comfort to a stranger. It’s un-American, really. Un-Christlike.

I will be challenged often in the coming months. How will I handle this over the upcoming family holiday gatherings? Consider that 51 percent of voters voted for Trump. So, 51 percent of the 25 relatives at Thanksgiving will be Trump supporters. That is 13 out of 25. They won’t be wearing Trump regalia. However, a niece whom I rarely see might ask what I think about the election results. “They stink,” I will be thinking. I will just have to look in her eyes and say, “It is so good to see you.” And then move along on the line of relatives getting their turkey and mashed potatoes and, later, some of the pies I will be baking (No pie for you, Trumper!)

“So good to see you is polite.” True, too. Bloodlines link me to these people. But we’ve lived our lives in different ways. They don’t really know me and I don’t really know them. We can talk turkey and pumpkin pie and sports. Politics will be off the table until the drinks start flowing and I will be home by then.

When these twenty-somethings are retired, someone might mention Uncle Mike at a future family gathering. “He was the writer, right? He once read us a silly poem as we waited for our lunches at Hull’s Seafood House.

“That’s the one. It was always so nice to see him.”

“Yes it was, so nice.”

In later years, memories of me will fade as will thoughts of Trump although his big head may be forever chiseled into Mount Rushmore, if some supporters have their way.

“Trump was such a nice man,” tourists will say.

Some old codger, maybe my son or grandson, might reply, “He was an asshole. Worst president ever.”

You can only be nice so long.