Why are we like this

Why are we like this?


On the day that the embryo storage fee is due, a sterile reminder, coming from accounts payable, of those potential life-giving cells that remain frozen together, hung in space and time, an ellipses, an insurance policy, a story that we can’t yet write the ending on.


On the day that 19 babies were killed – after eating their favorite cereal for breakfast, playing catch at recess, retying their shoes because they are, were, still learning how – these young bodies killed with a weapon that comes from war, that symbolizes a war waging across and within whatever the “us” is that makes up this stolen land, how dare we call it ours.


On the day that I quickly typed into my running notes section: laughs when she sneezes. Sits cross legged and bounces towards me on her butt. Tried to feed the cat her dinner; he was not interested in curry. Afraid of the harmonica but still wants to touch it.


On the day that thousands are casting ballots, some seeing it as a referendum about abortions, a bellwether of the direction this country will go, yet again, how far it will go, slide, run, creep openly, unabashedly, unapologetically, towards an end it was destined for all along, given how it began, in poison, death and dominance, the snake ouroboro eating its own tail.


On the day that the invites were sent out for her 1st birthday party, who will be there at her birthday party, the red finches resting in the camellia tree and chirping down at her, the loved ones whispering across the breeze to her, sending their best wishes from up, away, and the other side, reminding us that there are no guarantees.

What makes life more bearable, as whole universes flash out of existence every minute?

Writing over, papering over, paving over these sordid and divergent truths that we hold all at the same time, because multiple things can be true at once. But isn’t that the hardest part? 

Asking the question: why are we like this? And what happens if she gets gunned down too, at her first grade desk, second grade desk? And getting no answer, or no satisfying answer, or no real answer. But, our breath. The only thing we can control, the only reliable thing, until it isn’t. 

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