In April, the forsythia blooms bravely yellow
in the chill. I take the temperature of my being
this 78th springtime of my life.
My heart aches.
Is it existential or physical?
Likely both.
I am processing cruelty and injustice:
the frail 80 year old woman I watched on video,
being carried out by police for protesting the exclusion
of immigrant children from school.
"This is wrong," she said, her face resigned
to whatever came next.
How quickly fascism moves.
How soon "agents" who are "just following orders"
exchange humanity and civility
- and the rule of law and due process -
for aggression, devoid of empathy.
None brave enough
- like the old woman -
to say "this is wrong."
As if a switch has been turned within, changing
all decency to cruelty and harsh, uncaring stares.
We have seen all this before.
That same day I stood by my grandson's grave.
This felt wrong, too.
He was so alive, magical, loving,
and now forever gone.
His mother wept beside me,
a forever loss, a rending of the fabric of family.
We promise to keep him alive
through our stories and memories.
But it is not enough.
I have seen so many marches, protests,
heard so many pleas for peace -
yet here we are, still marching.
This is where I came in,
having to fight to restore
all those rights again.
Weariness, fatigue, a tired heart
beating ever more slowly.
Existential and physical angst
feel much the same. They sing one weary note
and dream to hope again.
For Sumana's prompt at What's Going On, on being and doing in April.
