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Did you hear what happened?
My sister texts me three days after my child is born.
I change the too-big diaper, hand-wash the onesie in the garage sink.
A child with a name so new it is still plastic-wrapped.
Jesus Christ, that’s awful.
A familiar ritual: pray for their families, hold hope for survivors.
I hand-wash the onesie in the garage sink, bounce on the gray yoga ball.
It will never not terrify me to hold something so delicate.
How are you feeling?
“Where are we supposed to go now?” A survivor testifies to a lens.
I bounce on the yoga ball, sing old folk tunes to the pace of steady back pats,
wonder on the years ahead and what they will hold.
Sad.
A familiar ritual: give to the fund, strike a match, hold a candle close.
I sing old folks tunes in a slowing pace, bring the water to its not too hot temperature,
pour out the glass of tear-free water, careful to not let it hit their eyes.
How far is Colorado Springs from Denver?
I am forever grateful to seventy miles of asphalt, gravel, and dirt.
I bring the water to its not too hot temperature, let static fill the darkened room,
lay a body in rest upon the softest sheets I own.
Take care sister. I love you.
A new ritual: stare at my child, still purple and wrinkled from birth,
and let out a desperate wish.