If you haven't read Nancy's poem, posted in yesterday's comments, you should. It is a raw depiction of the pain and division in rural white America . . . one that I recognize from my two decades in Harmony . . . one that I am sure is being enacted there as we speak. I am grateful to her for finding a way to frame words around a terrible moment.

In this national crisis, we wait, helpless, unable to close our eyes. I mostly hate using we in this way, as if I have the right to speak for everyone. But now it simply feels like an observation.

In the meantime, today is Tom's birthday, and Paul and I bought him a pair of ice skates, and we are going to take him pond skating this morning.

In the meantime, Paul's football team won its game and he is very relieved.

In the meantime, I walked among the gravestones in the cemetery, and a cold breeze blew and the sky was the color of saucepans and gulls circled overhead and a very small child with a very small scooter cried because he couldn't keep up with his brothers.