At Least They're Committed

I’ve not had much to say all day. But when at last I had enough energy to talk again, I said, “I’ve probably never said it, but how twisted is it that every time there’s a horrible tragedy, my brain screams, ‘my children, my children!’ They’re not my children, they’re God’s children.”

“You’ve said that before,” D says. “You, actually, say it a lot.”

“Huh,” says I. “Strangely, as twisted as it is, I can’t imagine . . . or want to feel otherwise.” The only thing worse than caring so much, is not caring so much.