Stuff happens! Shit happens! get over it! Move on!
“But how?” Asks the nurse who repeatedly braves a smile to bid adieu to her patients. Patients, who longed futilely for their loved ones. Loved ones, who lean as hard against the impenetrable glass doors as possible, frequently leaving teardrop smudges and sweaty handprints. Handprints, that will be left on soon to be received death certificates. Death certificates, that will perfunctorily add to the statistics of the pandemic.
“But how?” Asks the black mom who goes over all the safety rules with her young boy, knowing full well that none of them will provide immunity in the savagely color-corrupted world. The world, where George Floyd and Jacob Blake are mere TRP grabs and hashtags. Hashtags, that have failed to stay woke in taking forward “I have a dream” revolution. “I have a dream” era, which has been rendered hollow and nugatory, one killing at a time.
“But how?” Asks the woman who keeps rubbing his stink off her skin. A stink, that’s haunted her spirits to immobility. An immobility, fiercer than gravity which she grapples with to stand up to the world. A world, so warped that it chastises her for “proof” of her wounds. Proof, that is written all over her chagrined convulsing body.
“But how?” Asks the parent who has had to stand at the altar and talk about their child in memories. Memories, that commenced with little arms wrapped around parents’ bodies and ceased with parents’ arms around little bodies with bullet holes and shrapnel. Bullets, that roam free, unaccountable, piercing countless hearts, minds, and souls. Souls, that ask for more than a “sorry”.
But sure, let us move on! Let us get over it! Because stuff happens! Shit happens!
Written for V.J.’s Writing prompt.