Cause you are beautiful inside, so lovely and I
Can’t see why I’d do anything without you, you are
And when I’m not with you, I know that it’s true
That I’d rather be anywhere but here without you…
n. a state of exhaustion inspired by an act of senseless violence, which forces you to revise your image of what can happen in this world—mending the fences of your expectations, weeding out invasive truths, cultivating the perennial good that’s buried under the surface—before propping yourself up in the middle of it like an old scarecrow, who’s bursting at the seams but powerless to do anything but stand there and watch.
“I can’t do this again,” my mother literally sobbed at me before taking another very long, hard swig from her beer can. What number this was, I’d lost count, but for the first time in a long time, I didn’t care. It seemed justified, somehow. Something about learning that your husband likely has cancer… again… seemed to make drinking a few beers and crying in your barn an ok reaction.