I hate to say just how helpless I feel after this happens and happens and happens. I hate to admit that I’m almost numb to this senseless killing, maybe because I know it will happen again and again. Destroyed lives, devastated families: thoughts and prayers yet again. And again.
That nothing will change seems inevitable.
But:
I agree with this young person in the photo above.
This sad statement, this horrible realization that no child should accept; I might die today at my school, at the local park, at the grocery store, at my church or synagogue.
That guns are more important than lives. More important that children's lives.
Are we monsters?
Don't answer, that was rhetorical.
But yes, I agree with the painful words scrawled in black sharpie on brown cardboard.
Every victim of mass shootings should be placed on the stairs of Congress that the senators and congressmen will have to step over each day to get to work.
If that seems unhygienic, we’ll fuck them, they should be forced to see the mess they won’t fix.
Though in respect of the parents and families, it could be these children’s urns they need to step over.
Make it a fucking memorial on the steps of congress. That can not be moved or disturbed.
A new “Eternal Flame.” An updated “Unknown Solider.” Though, sadly, each and every urn will be known, will have a name.
A scared place of pain and remembrance with names and dates on the urns as these urns, again sadly and with growing disgust, cover and climb the many stairs leading to the one place that could actually help stop these repeated and senseless killings, murders, massacres.
A memorial on the stairs of Congress where parents and family can grieve and leave flowers and make paper and charcoal etchings.
A place for our nation to grieve. To mourn. To scream and cry and try our best to not be numb, to not just accept this insanity.
Hundreds of urns surrounded by flowers and photos and tears that every politician, every lobbyist, every visitor has to step over each and every day.
Maybe then? Hopefully then? Change?
It hurts to even hope when I fear that some politicians, too many politicians, having to literally step over the urns of dead children, that it will have zero affect on them except that they will silently curse under their breath at being inconvenienced each day by having to step over so many, too many, hundreds of urns and clumps of flowers and paper etchings and cherished photos and rivers of tears.
Fuck. Again and again, fuck.