I read a novel that was brash and honest and only now feel comfortable enough to say that what I’ve been feeling is rage. None of this is okay. I’m privileged, very privileged. We have our jobs, no fear of losing them, some childcare, and yet. It’s still appalling. It’s still impossible.
I don’t really feel like justifying myself with examples, don’t want to feel like I have to.
I’ve been going through old pictures. “Milt,” my husband says with fondness, a tinge of sadness, looking at the picture from our wedding, his unsteady hand inking our ketubah. Milt died two months ago, but I won’t allow myself to weep. I don’t have the space for it. For him, for my great grandmother, for the child in my son’s class, for anyone. I won’t even ruminate long enough to complete that sentence, the list of who or what I should perhaps be weeping for. I can’t.