The list is vicious, this year.
Is it not always?
Oh my eyes burn and my cheeks ache from crying.
My chest shakes with shivered silence.
Brazil, what do I not know that there are so many from Brazil?
Have I any right to feel relieved that only a few are from America (our America), this year?
Any are terrible.
From any place.
But I stretch toward relief of the horror of it.
And I yearn for the chance to change it.
To fix it.
To break something for anger and shame that this still happens that we still fail so miserably to end the violent cruelty that a 13 year old was hanged that people were dismembered and burned and left in dumpsters this year.
I cannot be by my friends’ sides at all times and cannot be near them in every instance of danger and someday perhaps I won’t be.
Someday they might die and I will have failed to defend them.
I hate this reminder of my futility.
I love people and want them to love one another.
Oh God of my childhood, oh loving God come to my aid, help me to defend the endangered and precious about me.
Let my efforts make this world kinder.
Let this world be worth saving.
Let the list of the lost dwindle to nothing and the cruelty become but the bitter tastes of yesteryear.
This year, it is too late for 238.