Note: I know we don't all share the same politics. In this essay, I wrote for Elephant Journal about my own perspective about marching in Boston. I speak only for myself in this essay. I particularly appreciate those of you who have written to me privately, in the past, with political views quite different to share your thoughts and feelings. Those conversations are helpful and I value them in email or comments and remain open to considering things I don't know, feel or experience while sharing mine.
As we arrived at the Boston Common, Beth remembered summers when we stripped the girls down to diapers at the frog pond.
I thought of the bouncy ground at the playground where the girls chased, climbed and crawled. We were monkey-bar moms, spotting each other in the days when there wasn’t a minute to pee, sleep, shower, eat, rest or read.
“Can I come with you?” one woman asked. We don’t usually talk politics or socialize much because we’re in the SMU crew (Single Moms Unite), and we help with rides to work, sports, events or school.
I learned she teaches English, which is not her first or even second language. Margaret told me this, because they had been together at South Station talking to strangers while waiting for a train. Margaret is an environmental activist and art professor who rides her bike to the park all summer to paint landscapes. She’s 74.
“That is where I was when the bomb went off,” my daughter said which she says every time we go near the Common. She was with her Dad in the early years of our separation. “We were playing. We thought it was lightning,” she said. We both know she meant thunder.
Fear is always physical at first. I grabbed her hand. Full text.
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