This month births tragedies.



No one told me to wear armor today.

I really didn’t know.

I wasn’t totally awake when the blows started.

And, to be honest, it’s been like this two weeks.

Waking up to unexpected battles.

I wasn’t able to dodge the news about Dan’s death.  

And there was more.

Nothing softened the blow about a family torn apart by unfaithfulness.

There wasn’t a shield to keep me from seeing depression in the eyes of a loved one.

But I am still standing in this ring.

Still waking up to little wars.

Waging battles against the calm that had settled in my stormy soul.

My sister stumbles over words and I realize life is not in my control.

My friend tells me I’ve hurt her feelings. And I wish to not be carrying them.

I meet a boy who thinks of love as something wrapped in bed sheets. I walk away.

And between these people crashing against each other is this repetitive moment of waking, showering, dressing for the day.

And forgetting my armor.

Today you ask me not to speak to you. Not to distract you from your work.

Today you tell me not to come to lunch. You’ve made other plans.

These missed bullets fly by. Only minor moments in a month that’s long.

If someone would only remind me to hold my hands in front of my face.

Protect my face.

Protect my face.

From blows and tears and tiny fears that drip like rainfall,

Or some kind of emotional shrapnel.

This is my way of not crying.

I have my health. My strength. My faith.

But I did not know today I would go into battle.

I long for bunkers. Sleep away some sorrow.

Let this chaos seep away from me. Your tragedy’s may steep.

While Becca weeps for Dan. While another weeps for her abandoning man.

Waging waging against this steady reign of day upon day dawning missiles at us.

I will walk heavy to my desk.

I will walk in the metal stocks of knowing.

That some months birth tragedy.

That relationships are filled with hurled emotions—like anger and disappointment—that crash against comfort and safety.

To make these bones feel shattered.

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