I was reading that reflection by a woman named Laura Lynn Jackson before I closed my eyes last evening. At the time, it seemed profound. Then I read it again today, in light of events that unfolded yesterday in New York's Central Park and on a street in Minneapolis. Now it seems trite. It’s neither and both. I am weary, uncomprehending, holding my cup of rage and sorrow.
And yet. On Memorial Day my girl went for a socially distanced bike ride and park outing with her cousin and a friend, while the man and I went for a drive upstate. We'd planned to stop at scenic lookouts on the Palisades, but it seemed everyone else in New York had the same idea. So we just drove, the sun roof open, the sky clear blue, the company sublime.
Then the whole fucking world exploded.