"Peaceful Assembly"

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

—Martin Niemöller 

There is a buzzing in my mind.  Unpleasant, erratic, insistent, distracting me from my work.  I am more afraid right now than I have ever been in my life. 

            This isn’t like the times when I was nervous about jumping off a rickety rope swing in backwoods Missouri, when my heart would race, thumping out of my chest, and my hands would shake.  This is painful.  I’m not shaking, my heart isn’t racing.  I would be sick to my stomach, if my stomach weren’t empty.  This is absolute terror, down to my very core. 

            I could die tonight.

            This might be my last meal, but I don’t have time to make anything fancy.  I just reheat a buffalo blue cheese sausage link in the microwave and wolf it down as fast as I can. 

            I look in the mirror.  Ugh.  My eyebrows are a mess.  I don’t want to die with bad eyebrows.

            This is silly.  Every day could be my last day.  Accidents happen all the time.

            My phone dings.

            Mom:  “I cannot stress enough what a bad idea it would be to go tonite. Please don’t go.”

            As much as I hate disappointing my mother, and my soccer team, and the social committee at work, some things are just more important.             

Meat People Meet Meat People

I often wonder if other people—“normal people”—have trouble with life the way I do. 

            As I sit at my kitchen table, picking fresh thyme leaves off their stems, I think . . . no.  No, normal people do not encounter the same issues I do.  Because they don’t need to grocery shop for two days before they can cook a meal on the third.  They shop at Walmart, which already has all the things they need.  The meals they make don’t take two to three hours to cook because they don’t make everything from scratch, including their laundry detergent.  They probably have hungry families waiting for them at home, wanting their meals right now.  So whatever premade stuff in a box or a bag goes into the microwave and voila, dinner is served.

When I do go to stores, I lose myself wandering around looking at all the neat things they’ve got these days:  things to make peoples’ lives easier, things that are absolutely superfluous to life, and so many things in the grocery store that simply aren’t food.  And ooh, frozen bibimbop at Target—who’d have thought? 

No . . . no I don’t imagine that normal people have these sorts of concerns.  

Log Jam

Get your head together, girl.  You’re going into the wild tomorrow.

            I can feel a tear hovering on my cheek; the breeze does nothing to disturb it.  The droplet lingers—frozen—then gradually evaporates.  I gaze at the stars the only way I know how:  in reverence.  I don’t pray, but this is what I imagine prayer to be like.  The wind gently brushes my sun-tipped hair away from my face; the ringlets scatter over my shoulders and flutter down my back.  Why was I crying?  I can’t remember.