This journey was too rare a privilege to trap it in a car, and even rarer to have a day so fine to take it. In t-shirt, jeans, and the shoes for it, I set out for the walk.

Four blocks, about, and all downhill, at least on my way there. Marveling at the local colors hanging from the trees, brilliant warm blue sky behind them, for this day at the least. I did not rush the pace of it, for the privilege was too rare.

A block from my goal, a neighbor fell in, a man I had not met. We shook hands as we realized we'd be walking together, traded addresses, people we knew. His daughter, we found, lived even closer to me, and he and I had been sharing our walk's destination for some time. This would make five times he and I had gone to the same place to choose a president, without knowing each other at all.

We got to the block surrounded by signs, the names all blending together. He and I commented on the full parking lot, even at an hour that should be slack. Speaking, smiling together, stepping smartly past those standing at the prescribed points, seeking the opportunity to put one last thought in our heads. Safely inside the radius, he gestured me ahead, and we joined the line.

The first stop was at a podium, at a man with a suit and a tie. Three people ahead of me, a lanky man with scraggly hair fixed his eyes above the tie, and challenged: "Are you a representative of this precinct's committee?" Only when the tidy man replied in the affirmative did the challenger turn up his palm, to show approved ID that he'd been hiding. The law for this is a new thing, just recently reviewed by the highest court in the land, and the challenge and response is permitted and required for those who want it. You could tell the man in the suit was only theoretically prepared, but he did the proper thing then nonetheless.

The suit had collected himself again by the time I reached him, and I produced ID without complaint. As he exercised the alphabet to find me, check me off, I asked him "So, pretty dull day so far?" He clearly had been standing at his post for a number of hours, and he snickered and replied "Well, it's not slow."

Past him I had two stops to make before I could cast a vote, in a room too full of people for the place. (One wonders if the fire marshal ever... oh, I kind of doubt it.) I waited in that line, looking about at my fellow citizens, all there to do their duty on this day.

Each stand where a ballot might be marked was occupied at the time, and the line could only move as people finished, so I had some time to see the people there. I'm proud of those who live near me, this neighborhood's diverse, and I smiled to see the ones I saw.

The lady with the sleeve that covered only half her tat, the kind that would be sharper when she could pay to fill it in. Sitting in a seat that marked her as part of the place's staff, talking with an acquaintance passing through. Speaking of how this year the election has been special, then remembering her role and clamming up. Looking around to see who might have heard, confirming she'd created no bias.

The man ahead of me with the amazing tufts of ear hair. Wearing a jacket with a unit patch that spoke of prior service to this country, to us all. I was sad to be unable to place that patch to a service and to a year; from the looks of him, it could have been Korea. He was standing tall, waiting again to do his part.

I reached the place where ballots were disbursed, and showed my ID again. The gentleman in charge there had a wobble as he sat - Parkinson's was my quiet diagnosis. He calmly worked the post he had, despite its minor difficulties for him, and earned my respect for doing so.

One last stop to make to sign my name - before then, there would be a wait. The lady ahead of me had known she'd not be in the book, had brought the proper paperwork to vote, and presented it with urgency and pride. In the most solemn manner, the round black keeper of the book scrutinized the seals upon it, nodding with certainty when she found them valid. As our new voter wrote her name in her blank space, with care, I had some extra moments to see the room. (Nice legs over there in the corner, near where my ballot would soon be stored... but keep looking...)

From the other district's side of the room, a elderly lady walked slowly away after casting her ballot, with that gaze that speaks of dignity and cataracts. She might have made better time, but she was breaking trail for her husband, who was getting around on his walker to meet the duties of the day. The hallway was just slightly too narrow for them to pass, until the smiling young mother carefully nudged her sleeping baby's stroller from their path.

As I stepped up to the book myself, a bundle of energy passed me by, around to the side of the cheap folding table, crouching to speak with the keeper of the book. The cellphone in his ear, it seemed, had brought a resolution to one voter's problem - the ID that he holds may be considered valid, if the voter is on the rolls with her previous name, with or without the hyphen. He prods the keeper of the book to make that check, and she begins flipping pages.

He glances up to me - aggressively short hair, wrinkle-free eyes, thin wireframe glasses. A tie that I don't doubt was adjusted just right when last he saw a mirror hours ago. He makes the wry mouth of the busy man and half an apologetic wave, saying to me just: "Sorry."

I nod. "Hey, let's get this right."

Under pressure, it takes a few extra moments to find the right name, but there it is. The keeper and the tie smile to each other - they're doing their part on this day. He says to her as he stands again straight, "OK, that's good - let's get her signed in. So she doesn't have to go through the line again."

One silent moment, as I stand utterly immobile, him with his eye level just at my chin. "Right after this guy," he appends. Thank you. I shift to one side slightly so he can have space as he passes, off to his day's next duty, his cellphone never closing.

I am easy by comparison: I sign the roll in my spot, and take my ballot to the flimsy cardboard stand. We color in ovals now, less tactile satisfaction than clacking the thick metal levers of my youth, but there's still a sort of pride in how it's done. I know my neighborhood is in line behind me, and my country itself awaits, but I find myself lingering slightly as I mark. I know all here would rise against anyone who tried to make me do this differently, here and now, and the privilege of that is far too rare to rush.

When my ballot fills, I carry it to the farthest corner of the place, to be submitted to the box that holds them all. It is designed to be clearly inviolate, metal so squat and solid that no Clark Kent might steal a peek at what's within. The man who watches over this box has game show host in his manner, and he waves me to my place with a showman's flourish. He's overfriendly, overexcited, perhaps as a way to avoid being stern about a responsibility we should take joy in. He and I watch together as the machinery accepts my paper, and the small tally counter on its top bumps up by one.

I step backward, satisfied, as he says "There it is, there we go - give him a sticker." I turn to see the lady who I've almost stepped upon, sitting demurely in her seat, those legs I noticed earlier crossed beneath her all-business skirt. Her role is also to validate, and she's holding a peeled sticker out to me, evidence to all that I've done my part. I take it with a fingertip, as her voice comes to me from belt level: "Thank you so much for voting." I smile down into her eyes and depart, taking the politest path to the door.

Back out in the sunshine, I pass the end of the line and strike out for home, thinking of all the souls I left behind me. I'm under no illusion that we, all of us, agree. I feel children should not sweat for months of the year the way my son has sweated, and I think we can go in together to pay to cool his school. A young mom or Korean vet might be more inclined to say no, based on the state of wallets these days, and I cannot in good conscience speak for them. I think there's a simple brilliance in how we decide.

We come together from time to time, and each of us has our say. There are too many kinds of us to all agree, and so this must be done. I'm always in awe when we do it, to see all the kinds of my neighborhood, to see even the souls I don't usually note. We believe we should all speak as equals, convinced that it's best done that way. All of us taking the piece of the duty that suits us best, using our cellphones, or our legs, or simply the fact of our presence. Permitting walkers or strollers or whatever each of us needs to come together in the way that we must go. The brilliance of it sustains me, the respect we show each other while there, more than we might see in the grocery store or the mall. It is our greatest civic ritual, and together we rule by submitting ourselves to it.

I had once again the rare privilege of seeing my neighborhood, and my country, not all agreed, but as one.

I take pride in the way that we do it, how we decide things, where I am.