Ad mosai?

My old street corner.

Yellowed stone, brilliant rays, and luminescent blue.

Busy, bustling, bright.

Where we watched that train and its parking lots slowly, slowly come to life. We’d joke about paying the city for babysitting those 3 little noses, glued to the pane.

Where I’d see my kids gaily waving through the barred picture windows as I’d alight. I’d remember how we should really invest in curtains for the daytime, when the heavy metal trissim were rolled up. We never did.

Where, a short while back, a soldier was shot in the stomach under the bus shelter that sheltered nothing and no one.

Where last week, a baby went splat.

My old street corner.

Busy, bustling, bereft.


Numb

I’m feeling frozen.

There’s a solid block of tears pressing on my heart, crushing it slowly.

And I’m scared to defrost.

No, I don’t want to just take something upon myself, or hear passionate eulogies, or work to accept His will, or praise our nation.

I don’t want to absorb, to digest, to try to understand.

Because if I don’t process, then I don’t have to move on.

I hate Moving On.

How does everyone else always seem to be able to react appropriately?

What’s wrong with me?