When bad things happen, I step outside.
I want to plant my hands, my feet, my body into the soil.
Let Mother Earth hold me, console me.
I listen for a still small voice–it’s all going to be ok.
It doesn’t come this time.
I wait. I wait. The sun goes down. The sun comes up.
There is something here beside me, but it doesn’t speak or whisper.
It is not the still small voice I long to hear.
Maybe, this is the tipping point. Maybe we can’t come back from this.
Maybe this was one too many grievous sins.
Maybe no matter what I wish for, desire, want–it’s not going to be ok.
Not this time.
I want to make it better. I want to use my pen and paper to smooth it all out.
I want to type the right letters that spread optimism.
I want to add sparks of hope on this dark night, in this dark world.
I want to see green and blue instead of black and red.
I want us all to be ok.
I write the last sentence and stare at the screen. I press delete.
How can I ever hashtag a school shooting?