I was irritated. I saw the clunky rocks still needing to be cleared in my freshly graded yard. There were un-swept crumbs on my kitchen floor and they bothered me. Not all the dishes sparkled. I sighed at the sight of the unwieldy white snowflakes drifting down over clean curbs and black lampposts. It was too, too much.
And…I noticed that there was rust on the door of my Jeep, that faithful servant of a quarter million miles and I had to go to my job and I had things to do and days and days in which to do them.
And…I listened to the car radio and there was a sixteen year old boy and his mother for whom he had struggled to buy passage from Africa to Europe…fleeing a murderous people and they were thrown off a boat in stormy seas and they drowned.
In my mind I keep trying to picture them as surviving but I know that we have all lost dreadfully…dreadfully.
I will walk out to my yard soon and stoop, bending over to pick up errant stones and throw them into a waiting and sturdy cardboard box.
And…I will be silent…
690 Saint Paul 