I’m trying to believe the above quote, but the truth is: my heart hurts and I’m not smiling a whole lot today.
Guy and Garrett flew out of Portland on Saturday morning and I was asked by lots of loving friends if I thought North Korea would brazenly fire a missile at Seoul and if so, what might happen to my boys, who are 4 hours away from there, in Daegu. I had no answer, except to say I sure hoped not, and that we’d figure it out and deal with it if it happened.
AND. As it did happen, so far anyway, they’re safer there than they are 4 hours away from here, in Boston. Where no one has openly threatened war.
Here, the lunatics are sneaky, conniving, insidious. There’s no fanatical waving of an arm, no defiant shouting. Just the bombs speaking.
Of course, when the explosions went off, thanks to social media, I knew within minutes. I sprang up, heading directly for the living room where Guy was reading. Except he wasn’t. Because he was in South Korea.
And I stood in the space next to the chair where he should have been reading and puddled all up and began to pace in circles, wringing my hands.
This reminded me of our hamster, Otis, and the day we brought him home. I explained to Natalie that the pet store, the only world he’d ever known, had just disappeared forever. Pacing in circles seemed a completely understandable way of trying to set it right again, like Superman flying so fast around the world he turned back time. Somehow I convinced her, and myself, of this.
But now, I say: someone please. Give me something. Make it so the world tilts at a normal angle again, so that things make sense.
The pacing in circles isn’t working.