terror in the streets where I have
walked where they walk live
but there is no help I can give
their pain is transferred but no salve
exists I can send them no laugh
no moment of joy the urge to
yell fight is omnipresent who
can sublimate this ferocious
attack that assaults all of us
but allows nothing we can do
Robert Earl Keene is playing in our neighborhood on a Tuesday– sounds like a night out to us! He’s got a crack band, including a mandolin champ from Oz, and delights the audience of fans with his witty songs and quirky jokes and stories. Here’s a link to a seasonal one that brought the house down.
A trip north to visit Mom. She is slowly fading, although she still recognizes me, and reads the names I’ve written on the photos in her album as if they are familiar still. The portrait of her with Dad needs no caption, and I breathe a silent prayer of thanks that remains true. I call my distant brother and sister so they can chat, for their peace of mind and her momentary enjoyment. We remain, somehow, the sketchily remembered fabric of her life, and I will never stop trying to stretch that shrinking vista to wrap her in our love.
Sorting and culling old memories and belongings in the attic again this morning, and as I’m about to leave to meet friends for dinner and later to hear P’s band play, I get the early reports of the Paris terrorist murders. The events unfolding are in the neighborhood where my son and his Parisian wife live, although they have now relocated to Texas for a year for work, much to my present relief. I touch base with them to be sure H’s family are accounted for (they are), and they are reeling in shock at the news of devastation in places so familiar, often frequented. My mind bifurcates, half enjoying the evening’s sushi and music, the other half trying to reconcile this news of brutality, random and unprovoked. How can these people, these actions belong in my world?