At least 52 people (that's my rough count) sent an email, phoned, facebooked, or stopped to offer support or ask me how I felt about the news of Osama bin Ladin's assassination. That's what it was right? An assassination?
So how do I feel? This question is nearly impossible to answer. How did I feel when I began watching Wolf Blitzer speculate about the possibility of bin Ladin's death? How did I feel when the President announced it? How did I feel as I talked and texted to my family? How did I feel when the reporter from MPR called to report on my feelings? How did I feel as people generously offered support and love? There is no single feeling. There is a nuclear reaction of feelings, a tsunami of feelings.
First the quake, a jolt that knocked me off my feet. And today, five days later, as the great wall of dirty water dissipates and seeps into my bones, I am left with the chaos and emotional debris of grief and change. Everything is out of place. There is a fishing boat behind my left eye, a dismembered hand stuck in a chamber of my heart. Toxic waste has contaminated my insides and the clean up takes weeks, months, years.
I don't say this when people ask me how I feel because they want to feel better themselves. They want to comfort and be comforted. I oblige. Mostly.
So how do I feel? This question is nearly impossible to answer. How did I feel when I began watching Wolf Blitzer speculate about the possibility of bin Ladin's death? How did I feel when the President announced it? How did I feel as I talked and texted to my family? How did I feel when the reporter from MPR called to report on my feelings? How did I feel as people generously offered support and love? There is no single feeling. There is a nuclear reaction of feelings, a tsunami of feelings.
First the quake, a jolt that knocked me off my feet. And today, five days later, as the great wall of dirty water dissipates and seeps into my bones, I am left with the chaos and emotional debris of grief and change. Everything is out of place. There is a fishing boat behind my left eye, a dismembered hand stuck in a chamber of my heart. Toxic waste has contaminated my insides and the clean up takes weeks, months, years.
I don't say this when people ask me how I feel because they want to feel better themselves. They want to comfort and be comforted. I oblige. Mostly.
Well, I think this is just beautifully written.
ReplyDeleteYou do a really great job of cleaning up, and it's okay to describe the wreckage too.