By Joanne Jagoda
When I had no words ⸺
for my son in law who wept every morning for two weeks after Uvalde
when he dropped off my grandkids at school,
and for my daughter, a fifth-grade teacher
who wanted to leave the country
because she was afraid for her students and her own little ones
and could barely sleep or eat.
When I couldn’t conjure⸺
platitudes or reassurances,
offer consolation or guarantees,
or my usual common-sense wisdom.
For once in my life, I was left speechless,
grieving in silence for children cut down before they could be.
And I hoped and prayed, maybe, just maybe,
we had finally reached the tipping point with Uvalde
that we didn’t achieve (unbelievably)
after Sandy Hook or Marjory Stoneman Douglas.
Could Congress soar above partisanship this time,
demonstrating integrity and unity,
with new gun control laws, prioritizing a greater good?
Still, sadly nothing has changed, shootings every day;
in a Walmart, at a L.B.G.T.Q. nightclub, university campuses, a parade, a bank,
so routine, so ordinary, I hardly flinch.
And the ultimate head-shaking tragedy, when a first grader shot his teacher.
And don’t give me your empty thoughts and hollow prayers.
It’s much too late for those.
There are no words and there never will be.
In RavensPerch
Photo by Bruno Kelzer on Unsplash
Joanne Jagoda 