A grown man cries on the evening radio, reliving 9 year old horrors, and I want to turn it off, turn to a country station, anything. I am not used to this kind of emotion, springing from this kind of description. There is too much evil in the world, I think, scrubbing a pot fiercely in the kitchen sink. How we excel at breaking each other, building a junk pile of lives smashed to pieces so we can climb on top and play king of the hill.

I am grateful, so grateful, for my own safety, for the peace of my family, the security of our home. But the contrast is stark. How many mothers and children will die before they can ever wash the supper dishes without fear?

I stare across what seems a great divide. Do they resent me? Envy me? Pity me? I look into their eyes, willing my heart to leave a place open for them, even though all that rushes in may be a sense of helplessness. I will mourn with those who mourn, and leave the radio on.


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