The End

Returning from my walk this morning, I sit out in the yard with a cup of coffee and scroll through article after article about pipe bombs sent to democratic figures, Obama, Clinton, Soros, Waters, as well as the CNN newsroom, all those who had been favorite targets of Donald Trump. In the house behind my yard, children are singing Twinkle, twinkle, little star. It's a beautiful day. My chest feels heavy. My heart is empty. Someone had taken great care to construct a half dozen or so pipe bombs in hopes of maiming or killing people. Most of the comments appended to these articles express a similarly murderous attitude. No one says anything about healing or coming together. We are all busy at putting together our own pipe bombs. The children in the house behind the yard start into a new song. If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands. A small, pointless tear slowly slides down my left cheek. It feels like the last tear ever and I am surprised at its seeming so inconsequential. The children have stopped singing, but I can hear them laughing and playing. Joy comes with the morning! A song replaces theirs in my head. An old Doors song. This is the end, Beautiful friend, This is the end … Of our elaborate plans, the end; Of everything that stands, the end; No safety or surprise, the end. I'll never look into your eyes again.