Busy

Siri Myhrom
Aug 28, 2017 · 1 min read

Confession. Vow. 08.17.15

I had to pull the car over today listening to that momma bury her daughter — with my own girls, those tiny fierce fragile rivers of joy who run straight through me, sitting quiet and confused in the back seat.

I don’t know if I would have had that much composure or grace or solemn fire the way she did. I feel like I’ve listened, gutted, to the ferocious lamentations of so many mothers lately.

We have sacrificed too many beautiful mothers’ children to white supremacy, too many broken bodies, too many bullet holes, too much silence.
My silence. I know it, and I am filled with sick remorse. I know it.
It drives the car, holds the hot gun, wields the bat and the torch, spits the words. All those years, I thought my silence was keeping an uneasy peace. But it was always busy, digging graves.

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