a momentary reprieve

It’s raining here. It sounds like a rainforest rain. Thick drops on wide green leaves. Pummeling them into a mist. A gentle hissing. It feels like the whole world should be raining. Everywhere, rain to cover the wailing. But that’s not how it works. I know this.

Somewhere, right now, it is the perfect bluebird sky as some local tragedy unfolds. That’s how it always is. Nary a cloud in the atmosphere as some plane comes hurtling towards Earth, the people inside screaming before the great nothing.

That’s how it was in Somerville 20 years ago when the Twin Towers fell. That’s how it was a decade ago when two men bombed the finish line of the Boston Marathon, sending shrapnel into innocent bodies they believed deserved punishing. And that’s how it was on Friday when the ruling about Roe first broke.

I spent the early morning hours eating pastry by the river with my husband. Drinking coffee. Watching fish snatch unseen bugs dancing on the surface. A momentary reprieve from the human world that seems to feast upon the controlling of safe harbors. Of flinging apple cores at wild animals and feeling like some merciful god.

But we are too quick to judge who must suffer to truly fit the part.

I knew it was coming. The news would either be bad or worse. And yet I still yelped before falling silent.

Right now, I hear a bird breaking through the pounding rain. Occasionally puncturing the white noise with a quick chirp. As if she’s checking to see if she’s still here. If anyone is listening. She’s quiet now. Perhaps settling in for the storm.

What do we do with all of this water?

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