Aftermath

I have watched people die.  I have pounded on the chest of a teenager as the cerebrospinal fluid seeped out of his ears after being swiped by a truck on Lake Shore Drive.  I have told parents their child has died and children their parents.  I have stood at my father's grave before the end of my first decade. 

There is no light in premature death, no beauty, no joy, no optimism. 

Yet, there is solace in this wondrous profession.  I have opened my mouth to the great fire hose to have a small taste, even as the whiplash strained my neck.  I am scarred and worn. 

The only salve to heal these wounds is the opportunity to stem the tide of this all consuming blackness, to soften the blow.

What lies in the great divide between love and pain is basic humanity.  When religion, fundamentalism, or mental illness drags ideology outside this continuum, it is easy to lose faith.

It is becoming difficult to explain to my eight year old son why we are doing such a lousy job of protecting his peers.  And admittedly, I don't know how to find a middle ground with those who would unflinchingly commit such acts. How could we see eye to eye?

I will bury this terror with the humility of those who are left to deal with the aftermath. 

For every one of you there are millions of us. 

I may be clutching my children tightly now, but tomorrow the sun will rise.

And you'll be old news.