I was in Copley Square in Boston on Election Night in 2004. I stayed up all night and then went to Faneuil Hall to watch John Kerry concede.

I had a steno pad full of notes about everything I thought might be worth chronicling about those two days – interviews with people gathered there in the Back Bay, hurried transcriptions of phone calls from my friend in the room at the DNC, gut feelings, what it was like to be there in the sleet and snow and watch John Edwards bust out his signature thumbs-up from the stage and tell me everything would be okay if I could just wait a little longer. Little did I know just how long the wait would be.

These fours years on, I'm not sure why I never really wrote about that night. I wrote a few things in the aftermath. I marveled at the legislative results. I pondered what went wrong, and what the GOP did right. But what I didn't write about was how that night felt, in my gut and my brain – how it felt to be standing there on those cobblestones for an hour after John Edwards went inside and the snow stopped falling and where, somewhere around 3 a.m., some Bush campaign flunkies showed up and started pasting every available surface with Bush/Cheney 2004 stickers.

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