again and again
It’s strange how often waking up feels like déjà vu. It’s like we’ve done this before. The same throbbing temple, signaling dehydration, draws us from a deep sleep. No amount of water can take it away. It stays, lingers, swarming our head. We look outside at the cold expanse, the fog lifting off the melting snow. It’s warm for winter but not warm inside our bodies. Our hands feel cold, clammy, our heart beating faster it seems. We can’t believe we have to do it all over again.
Soon the children will be awake. Soon the morning will commence. We see it in front of us – the cereal boxes, the milk, the lunches being packed, the chit chat about the day that’s dawning. But we don’t feel ready for idle chatter. There’s a quiet fatigue that has taken over.
The drive to work is listless. The job is dull. The pay is even duller yet, barely enough to pay the mortgage, put food on the table and cover health insurance. Our hand goes to the over the counter pain med – the one we tried to not take when we thought we’d just push through. But with a throbbing temple, pulsing sensations throughout not only our head, but our chest, arms and legs — it’s not going away.
The kids are home from school. There will be commotion and noise as dinner is made. We sit in the driveway, car idling as we listen to the news, not ready to go into the chaos after a long day. The headache is finally gone, but the blankness has returned.
A reporter’s voice cuts through. It’s strained and solemn. A woman shot by an ICE agent. She died. She had a young son. She was a mom. She was idling in her car when killed, unarmed.
Our lips start to tremble. Our breath is tight in our chest. We grab our phone and search. The video pops up and we watch it, all of it. The agents rushed to the car, yanking on the door, yelling. They stand in front of the car. One starts to raise their gun. The car barely starts to move. Three shots fired. The car drives and hits another on the curb. The body still, the silence.
We watched again. Again and again.
Our heart slows. The world is still around us. Water wells up, threatening to spill over and cloud our vision. Our hands are cold like ice; our voice caught in our throats. The shock feels like a barrier to feeling anything, but the emotion is there. The loss.
We think of our children inside — the noise, the commotion, yet the joy. We think of our spouse. The throbbing pain in our temple returns. Hotter.
She was like us idling in the car, listening and observing. She had a child. She had a spouse. She had a family. She had a life.
We wipe our eyes, hide the emotion, shut the car off, slam the door and go inside. Another evening home from work. Another dinner. Another evening with the kids.
She never made it home. She never saw her kid again. She never had another family dinner. Her body still, hanging sideways on the driver’s seat, the door slightly ajar.
We open the door to our house, welcomed by “Mommy, watch this!” Our child uses a remote to control their toy car.
Sirens blare outside. More sirens. An ambulance is near, closer than drifts further away.
