A young woman died yesterday.
I’ll be the first to admit that I didn’t follow her instagram page. But I would have had I found it.
I’ve found it now.
Last night, my kids went to stay with their grandma for a bit while my husband and I went out to eat. We tasted wines. We oogled the dessert menu while we ate our dinner. I had a sangria. Meanwhile, somewhere, there were shards of glass and ragged metal, confusion and colored lights, fear and pain and fear again.
I didn’t know her.
This morning, a baby only has a father, and the father a new widower. A baby with a cracked skull. This, to me, is the worst part. Those left behind always are. Especially when they can’t understand it.
This afternoon, I searched for the moon. It wasn’t in the sky, so I found it in a deck.
How do things get this way?