It felt more like Spring than almost Fall outside. The Muse wrestled with the umbrella getting into the car. Short hop to the Metro station, the usual morning news on the radio heading back. No, wait! That’s not the usual morning news: I hear the word ’shooter’ and suspect the worst. It’s the worst

Amy last week got chased down the Front Range out of Boulder by the leading edge of the rainstorm that inundated the county. This morning, she’s heading just two Metro stops away from another unfolding national headline, another likely disaster. I am uncommonly weary five minutes later, dreading another day of unfolding revelations: innocent victims, delusional perp, brave responders, media blitz. Those same juicy segments endlessly rebroadcast while waiting for official confirmation. Speculating, but worse. Reporting, retracting, re-reporting, re-retracting, re-re-reporting, the first on the scene, continuous coverage of talking heads mumbling through their roles.

I cried for the victims of another senseless disaster and I cried for myself, a grazing wound to my aching hopefulness taking most of the breath out of me. It was such a beautiful weekend, one that we’ll fondly recall after the dark and drizzle settle in. The world felt refreshed, disaster-proof, but Monday dissuades that delusion. Disaster could strike anytime. Anywhere. Now. Right here.

My decent, respectable OrdinaryTimes do not buy insurance or underwrite any indemnity. They cannot blunt risk, merely counterbalance it. Worse will come. All the more reason, I suppose, to revel in every extraordinarily ordinary day. I have preparations remaining. How much can I prepare ahead without losing an essential crispness in the finished supper?

©2013 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: Working, Writing, Living