What to do with the sadness? And really, what is my sadness, but a knowing but (for now) for the grace of god(?) my children live and laugh and breathe. And are not shot dead in the kindergarten room or on the bus or at the mall.
What do I do, when I read the paper and force myself to look, to see. I feel like a soldier in a war. No, that is not right, not at all. I am notbrave, nothelping. I am notsoldier, I am observer. Perhaps like a journalist, I feel it is not right to turn away from the page, the boxes where their photographs are. Some school photos so fucking similar to my daughter's friends I cry out and hit myself in the head.
I think about it all day, wondering if foolish parents (I judge, even now) have told their children, my children's playmates and if those children will then tell my children and what on earth under heaven I will tell my children about this world. And how it can be so beautiful and so miserably and wholly and completely fucked up that this could happen.
I was sick like this when 9/11 happened, but maybe because it was so graphic. Because I am not sick like I was then, it's not true, I am sicker, sickened, feeling blackness in my soul, that this has happened. And today, or perhaps yesterday, 10 little girls between the ages of 9 and 12 were blown up in Afghanistan, and my heart is aching and bleeding. And wondering, and angering, and I can't even think. Their mothers, in the US, their mothers would've already had their presents. Maybe even wrapped.
And I don't know how to protect my children. Myself. From not only that happening but from that happening.