Lately, I my brain has felt very large, very roomy, with space for things to go flying past and rushing around. But in the midst of what can only be considered tragic situations, I have had one persistent thought, one line that keeps romping through my brain.
Surely goodness and love will follow me, all the days of my life,
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord, forever.
Right now, at this moment, that doesn't seem like it could be further from the truth. If goodness and love have followed me to South Dakota, they're playing an excellent game of hide and seek.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
today
One more bullet.
One more gun.
One more kid who will never again
walk in to my room and say
“Miss Bos, what are we doing today?”
It’s always the nice ones, isn’t it?
The kids who came early,
Who stayed late.
The kids who volunteered,
Who asked questions.
Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be him.
Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time
Maybe they thought he was someone else.
Maybe the shooter had poor aim.
Then again, maybe it was meant for him.
Maybe he looked at the wrong guy in the wrong way
Maybe while wearing the wrong color.
Maybe he was seen talking to the wrong girl.
Maybe, there won’t be any more maybes, ever again.
He’s got a little sister at the elementary school.
Her mother braids her hair every Wednesday night
She wants to be a dancer.
After this, she’ll want to be doctor.
Maybe she could have given him a few more minutes
His mother won’t cry when the police tell her
She can’t say she’s surprised
It happens to other people’s kids every day
And, really, she’s too doped up to feel anything.
Maybe, like a sick game of roulette, it was just her turn to lose.
They say that parent are supposed to teach children
We hear “Clean your room!”
“Don’t talk to me like that!”
“Take out the trash!”
But no one is yelling,
“Stop killing each other”
Because really,
Would it matter?
One more bullet.
One more gun.
One more kid
Who didn’t even make the obituaries.
One more gun.
One more kid who will never again
walk in to my room and say
“Miss Bos, what are we doing today?”
It’s always the nice ones, isn’t it?
The kids who came early,
Who stayed late.
The kids who volunteered,
Who asked questions.
Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be him.
Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time
Maybe they thought he was someone else.
Maybe the shooter had poor aim.
Then again, maybe it was meant for him.
Maybe he looked at the wrong guy in the wrong way
Maybe while wearing the wrong color.
Maybe he was seen talking to the wrong girl.
Maybe, there won’t be any more maybes, ever again.
He’s got a little sister at the elementary school.
Her mother braids her hair every Wednesday night
She wants to be a dancer.
After this, she’ll want to be doctor.
Maybe she could have given him a few more minutes
His mother won’t cry when the police tell her
She can’t say she’s surprised
It happens to other people’s kids every day
And, really, she’s too doped up to feel anything.
Maybe, like a sick game of roulette, it was just her turn to lose.
They say that parent are supposed to teach children
We hear “Clean your room!”
“Don’t talk to me like that!”
“Take out the trash!”
But no one is yelling,
“Stop killing each other”
Because really,
Would it matter?
One more bullet.
One more gun.
One more kid
Who didn’t even make the obituaries.
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