For as long as I can remember, I’ve kept to the same routine when I lay my head on the pillow. The darkness takes my eyesight away and then I’m filling in the blankness with a silent conversation. The details are different, the idea’s the same.
I hope tomorrow is a better day.
Admittedly, there are nights when the words are sparse and my conviction too damn tired a thing. But then a day like Monday comes along and I remember how these conversations I’m still having every single night are tethered all the way back to a time when the world seemed easier to figure out.
And then it seems more important than ever to say something, anything. And so I did. And the conversation I had in the silence of a dark that began in the middle of the afternoon in Boston, went on for a time. As my thoughts tumbled through the trembling emptiness, I thought on the piece Howard Burkes wrote on Tuesday morning about April being the cruelest month. It seems an unfair thing that such a hopeful month has gone so damned ugly.
That’s what the ‘new normal’ is about. A whole lot of ugly.
The monsters who stole Monday afternoon are not a national claim, they’re an individual curse. Their zip codes didn’t murder anyone. I won’t wish some country on the other side of the world a fiery death just the same as I won’t wish it on the state Timothy McVeigh was born in, which happens to be the same as mine. Hey, alls I can do is lay my head on the pillow and hope that tomorrow makes more sense.
And when I’m thinking inside the darkness of this new normal, I’m gonna borrow me some old school. Because, really . . . These terrorists can dream up horrible plots but they can’t dream up the better ideas of a world. They can write manifestos on what ails our society, but they can’t write a fig on what makes us strong. They can steal hope incrementally, by owning certain days of a calendar. But their tactics are hopeless over the long run. Because when we get shoved, we’re no longer just Boston or New York or Pennsylvania or London or Spain. We’re together. And we’re gonna pick ourselves up and we’re gonna keep going. Because it’s not a sprint, it’s a marathon.
All they can do is try and take our hope.
They can’t have it.
(As this Yankees fan can attest… they messed with the wrong town. Love you Boston. Really…I do.)