Nobody Pretends With Angels
Here’s the thing: I can’t post my usual “Nobody Gets Email” this weekend. The truth is, like everyone else, I want to cry…and tears won’t come…just a pushing behind my temples, a slow fog hangs over my chest, and like every single person that has ever watched their most darling of little children go into a school before they can barely tie their own shoelaces…..we all remember our children at that age…and today was hard to bear with this latest shooting.
I called my son tonight, even though he is 32, in my mind, he was in kindergarten again. Chasing lizards. Walking into the school bravely trying to hold his own fears. I had the overwhelming need just to tell him how MUCH I love him.
In my mind, I was being allowed to here the sound of my son, his voice, his laugh…the things we always take for granted, and today everyone was hit in the face with “But for the Grace of God” it could happen anytime, to anyone.
He told me his best friend’s daughter was born today.
“Does she LOOK like him? ” I laughed with a tease.
But no, he hadn’t heard of any of this…he had gone to work (they have no TV’s there) and came home and went to sleep. “What happened?” he asked.
He was spared the agony of the day, and for that I was thankful. We talked of the usual: bills, pets, Duck Dynasty…Christmas plans. And just the sound of his voice sent pain through my soul.
He was alive, but somewhere mangled and bloody, and lying on a cold floor, are little children…who died a horrible death, because some twisted, and angry soul took out his rage on their innocent little bodies. And tonight there are parents who have to go identify the body of the most precious thing they’ve ever held dear…and see the carnage where they were NOT there to protect them. And they will blame themselves…and hate God, and want to die, and all the other things that go with despair.
So, I think I’m going to take the weekend off…posting anything at the moment is just…almost to me, idiotic. Politics would just dirty the page.
Tomorrow I think I’ll buy myself a bottle of something, mourn, (I only drink on certain occations, and I never look for them.) —and then go on. Nobody suggests it a good idea, and I’ll be back certainly…Sunday or Monday.
Now, excuse me while I go pretend some angels …