At 8:45 this morning, I walked my kids to school in a daze, wet hair, an undrunk cup of coffee in my hand. I'd checked the news when I'd woken up - not the moment my eyes opened, because that's a promise I made to myself awhile back, but shortly afterwards - and wasn't surprised. I'm heartbroken for the victims, but not flooded with tears the way I was after Orlando, or Nice, or, god, Sandy Hook. This is normal now.
So I wake up, and it's just another morning reading about death, nothing to do but walk out into the kitchen and tell my husband the latest terrible news, hear him sigh, and then stand there with him in silence while we empty the dishwasher because there's nothing to say that we haven't already said.
I was planning to write something or other about loungewear this morning, but I don't want to anymore. On the walk back home from school dropoff I stopped next to a tree and reached out and held onto a leaf, then went up on my tiptoes and pressed it to my cheek so I could feel it against my skin. I wondered briefly whether a neighbor might be watching and whether I looked crazy, and then didn't care, and stopped thinking about that. A crow called out way above my head, and the sound was so loud it might have been cawing straight into my ear. I don't see or hear these things very often; I think that's why they struck me the way they did - it's just that I'd forgotten to bring my phone with me this morning, and I had nothing else to do.