The Burrow

I just can't. Writing about it is impossible. Thinking about it is impossible.  Holding it in my heart redefines impossible. So, I'm going to watch Johnny Weir and Tara Lipinski, both  resplendent in pink. I'm going to wonder with the Science Channel whether Nikola Tesla invented a death machine. I'm going to watch women skate furiously and ski fearlessly. I'm going to try not to cry. We don't have to live like this. We don't have to die like this.

Little Cuter's text message.  TBG's words before I joined him on the couch.  Hockey Mom via Facebook.  I barely had the shades up and the sleep out of my eyes before I was shivering. Don't watch the coverage.  Drive carefully.  Pay attention to the world around you today.  Don't forget to say I Love You.  Everyone has a suggestion. Everytown's Survivor Network (can you believe that we need such a thing?) is there if I need them; they reminded me on Facebook and Gmail. Before I could revel in the pictures of FlapJilly's weekend with Maga and Papa I had to wrench myself back from the brink. I think I'm fine, most of the time.  But right now I'm hearing sirens which haven't blared for nearly 7 years.  I'm holding the hand of a dying child, begging her not to leave me, watching the light go out of her eyes.  I'm on a Medevac helicopter and then I'm in and out of consciousness, asking for Christina, knowing that she's dead. I don...