6/11/22

At the gun violence prevention rally,
during the moment of silence,
a member of the crowd starts to yell
and runs at the stage.
Security, restraining him, bring a speaker tumbling to the ground,
its echo like gunfire,
and I watch, in the shadow of the Washington monument,
as thousands of people begin to run,
first those closest to the sound, and then, seeing the rushing tide, the others begin to follow.

And the microphone echoes with a command to freeze,
an assurance that there is no danger,
and we all stop, desperate for someone to tell us what to do
and I think about the new cat hair lingering on my clothes
and how embarrassing it would have been to be identified in the t-shirt I’ve worn through from almost a decade of use
because no one ever knows when they’re doing something for the last time.

And I feel the icy mango smoothie and salt-slicked french fries I carefully cradled crawl their way back up my throat,
and I think about that moment when I was ten years old and I cried and hugged my two best friends since birth in the basement of my soon-to-be-gutted house,
not entirely sure why we were upset but
mourning an imagined loss,
all the things that would never happen here, all the moments unexplored,
cherished more so in their certain impossibility.

And I think about what it means to mourn what has become mundane
and I feel the way my feet slipped in the muddy ground, searching for traction, and how if I’d actually had to run maybe I would have fallen and maybe that would have been okay because maybe staying down means staying safe
and I see the mothers toting toddlers and carrying signs that read,
“They didn’t come home that night”
and I think about the elderly woman who patted my arm as she left,
my silent tear shattering onto her gnarled hands.

And I think about fractured, selective memories,
about how I can’t remember our fourth date
but the sirens in the aftermath echo the ambulance you were dragged into
and I can remember exactly how it felt the moment I realized I needed to call 911
but I don’t remember who was the first one to run.

And the thing is, you traced “I love you” into the back of my hand, the same way you first did almost a year ago
(no one ever knows when they’re doing something for the last time )
and I think about my friend, now tracing comfort into the same shaking skin
and I think about how twisted it is to intentionally incite panic at the March for Our Lives,
about our physical proximity to government but
palpable distance from power.

And I hope one day this will all feel strange and irrelevant

And I hope one day I can be alone with my thoughts

And I hope one day I find proof that violence is not inevitable

And I hope one day that I can accept that love is in the small gestures, in the moments after, in the quiet comfort, in the ones who can calm the rattling, in the ones who look back and grab your hand