Butchblog

It is early morning and, not surprisingly for this part of the world, it is raining. You sit in your favorite chair scrolling through the day’s news. The more you read, the worse you feel. Your gut feels tight, your mind wants to shut down, you grind your teeth. “Did you see the latest?” you ask your wife, who also is scrolling. Doom scrolling the commentators call it.

            “The reflecting pool?” she says. “That 250th Maga rally?

            “No,” you respond, “The damn supreme court rulings. They’re letting him do whatever the hell he wants. Soon, nobody will want to live in this damn country.” You sound angry even to yourself.

            “Yeah, it’s awful,” she says, “but you can’t let it get to you. That’s what he wants, you know. You have to ignore the worst of it. Breathe, honey.”

            You’ve heard her response before. And you don’t disagree, but still you say, “I can’t stop. It’s like a moth to a flame.”

            “And then the moth burns up.” She is smiling, though you don’t understand why. But still you love her smiles.

            “I’m not going to burn.” You put the phone down. “Maybe I’ll write about the damn rulings.”

            “Oh sweetie, that’s even worse.”

            “Well, you can’t hide from what’s happening. There are lots of other people who feel the same way I do.” You stand up and walk into the kitchen to make your breakfast. “It’s my way of resisting. I have to help get the word out.”

            “Can you get me another cup of coffee?” she calls. You both understand she is ending the conversation. You bring her the coffee.

            You make your usual breakfast, a creature of habit. Well, at least as far as breakfast goes. Two scrambled eggs and a single patty of veggie sausage. Also a multi-vitamin—one-a-day for men. You are being very careful about your health these days. “Do I look old to you?” you call out to your wife.

            “Of course,” she says. And laughs. “We both do.” You also love the laugh.

            You finish breakfast, do the dishes, then decide that you will not write today and you will not pout and feel sorry for yourself. “I’m going for a walk,” you announce. “A long one.”

            “Good plan,” she tells you.

            You pull on your rain jacket and go out the door. You breathe.