Sunday Morning Lucky

[democrank]

I’m sitting here on a Vermont Sunday morning looking out at a pasture, a tree full of crows and the remnants of some beautiful bee balm. I hear the clothes dryer tumbling, a clock ticking and a farm tractor coming down the hill. I smell the cinnamon in my oatmeal, I see a bouquet of dried hydrangeas. Sunday morning lucky….so lucky I could cry.

In other places of my world, children are dying, mothers are weeping, fathers are bleeding. I imagine grandmothers sitting with their heads on their knees, grandfathers propped up by sticks, looking into holes.

I don’t have to run for cover this morning. I don’t have to see my son with his arm blown off or my daughter being raped. My yard isn’t covered with hunks of concrete mixed in with family photos. My refrigerator works. Well water flows out of my kitchen faucet. I know right where my bandaids are if I get cut preparing squash grown close to home. I don’t have a single blown-out window, I’m not trapped, I’m not in agony.

I’m Sunday Morning Lucky….so lucky….I cried.