Sunday, October 4, 2015

Two Days After Another Shooting (Or Life Goes On, Until It Doesn't)

"Mom, why are you yelling at me?" he asks.
"I don't know. Why are you yelling at me?" I return.
"I'm not," he sulks.
"I'm not, either," I snap.

We are both lying, and we know it.

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I have never missed my mother more than I do right now.

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This is how it's supposed to go, they say. You and your child fight so that it's easier to separate when the time comes. I thought I would buck this particular trend.

It's dreary to be so predictable, and so often.

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Meanwhile, my friends, online and off, squabble about the issues of the day. This week: Gun control. I am for it. Full stop. Those that do not participate in the squabbling are facing serious life crises - psychological, physical, what have you. The downside to my having made so many friends through blogging is that there are always some struggling, and I tend to take on others' pain, which is not a healthy characteristic, but in forty-seven years I haven't been able to change it, so let's face it: the outsized empathy, it's here to stay.

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My college alumni magazine arrives, and I flip first to the obituaries. Today I asked my husband whether he knew of any people in his college class who have died, not from accidents but from middle-aged maladies like heart attack or stroke. "No," he shrugged, and then smiled. "Maybe I'll be the first?" We joke like that, he and I.

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I am not supposed to write posts like this, scattered. It's out of fashion, lazy, in bad form. I ask: What if my thoughts are exactly as scattered as my form?

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I am tired. I would talk a walk in the woods, but it's raining, and the rain is not supposed to let up anytime soon. Instead I eat until my stomach hurts. I can't seem to hear the satiety signal through all this noise.

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Don't worry about me. If you do I will react with anger, the reaction you least expect and deserve. Worry about the people who have good reason to be hurting. Me? I am one of the lucky ones.

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