a part removed

My mind will not quiet these days.

Last night, at the park, the sun was slinking off behind the mountains, my friends were sitting in the grass, paper plates balanced on their laps, and my son was gently touching another baby’s belly button. It was, by most accounts, a beautiful scene. And yet. My heart lurched.

I scanned the playground and wondered ‘How many people are going to bed scared tonight?’

Later, over a game of Scrabble with my husband, I checked the news and started to cry. “Families are going to be torn apart,” I said. I studied my letters. I could not find the words.

Today, I find myself Googling terms like ‘how to adopt a DACA child’* and ‘immigration attorney SLC.’ My study is no longer a study, but a room waiting for more important work.

My country feels like an anesthetized patient, cut open, its parts removed. The heart has been misplaced.


*Most DACA recipients are adults in their twenties. The majority are employed or in school. Many have children of their own.

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