“Why do so many terrible things happen?” My voice sounds small, mousy, and insignificant, echoing from the corners back to my ears. In the dark living room we sit side by side, your arm around my shoulders, my head on your chest, the TV spilling light on our faces.
“They just do,” you reply and disentangle yourself from me and the blanket that covers us against the chill.
“Yeah, I guess,” I say but I am not satisfied with that response. They just do seems to be like careless shrug, a “that’s too bad, shit happens”. They just do seems to mean that children simply starve, mad men and women hurt others and then themselves, wars kill, babies are ripped from their mother’s wombs, people are kidnapped tortured and murdered, even Mother Nature shows us how little we are by wrecking our homes and that’s it. Nothing you can do. Nothing a girl in her pj’s and fuzzy socks, sitting on her comfortable couch in America can do.
“Babe, you coming to bed?” you call.
I fold the blanket and set it on the couch, turn off the TV and stand in the dark, never having felt as powerless as I do in this moment, a speck of dust amidst the chaos.