I thought I would not write to you this morning. I haven't taken a break from this letter at least since early March. And today I'm tired and I'm tongue-tied. Yesterday's graduation was emotional but also deflating. Now this morning I'm looking at photographs of protests and looting, waiting for the daily morning call from my older son in Chicago, waiting for him to tell me what's going on around him.

So I thought I would not write to you this morning. And yet I felt I needed to offer some explanation for not writing, and then, of course, the words started oozing onto the page, and shaping themselves into sentences.

Anyway: If I stop writing, don't worry that I'm sick. I mean, I am sick with dread. But also: I am so tired of talk.