I woke up this morning feeling energetic. More than usual. Nice. Wrangled into my sweats — it’s Saturday! — splashed water on my face, vigorously towel-rubbed it dry. Poured a large glass of filtered H₂O and brewed an Americano.
Gave the kat his treats and brekky… Threw his stuffed mouse across the floor so he could get on with his daily chore of chasing it. Nice morning.
Sat at the MacBook and signed in.
I was feeling energetic because I slept deeply and I slept deeply because I was oh, so weary by the end of yesterday. A day off by one: Friday the 14th instead of what it really turned out to be for all of us. And every one of us got shot yesterday.
As of now: no explanation; as of never: no justification. Guns didn’t kill those children. Guns didn’t kill that boy’s mother. (A boy. A child. Killing children. I used to think “children having children” was wrong. Do I need to say that “children killing children”…) A boy killed them.
Where and how and why does a child get so lost so early on, so badly overlooked or ignored or forgotten that he explodes in so much passion in such a way?
I’m asking questions that fall into that “no explanation” space.
And now all that energy I was exulting over is pouring back into my heart, which is huddled, crouched; shuttered and shuddering; weeping.