My alarm wakes me gently a little before 6. I silence it quickly so as not to disturb my wife who is sleeping peacefully next to me. I hear her gentle breathing, I see her hair spilling across the pillow. I rise, put on a warm bathrobe and pad quietly downstairs.
Meanwhile…
The house is pleasantly warm and quiet. The only sound is the ticking of the grandfather clock in a corner of the living room. I turn on the coffee pot and the little toaster oven to warm an almond croissant. I open my computer and begin to write.
Meanwhile…
After an hour, I go back upstairs. I brush my teeth, shower, shave, comb my hair. In the pre-dawn darkness, I dress for work, fumbling with my necktie, tying my shoes, smoothing the wrinkles in my blue blazer. I place a gentle kiss on my wife’s forehead (she’s still sleeping), and head off to work.
Meanwhile…
My commute is simple. I make a few turns in a quiet neighborhood full of lovely homes, manicured lawns, elegant, shiny cars in driveways, pumpkins on porches, a skeleton or two. A woman is walking her dog; two kids with goofy helmets are riding their bikes to the neighborhood elementary school. As I drive onto campus, the guard in the booth waves a friendly hello. Now, the sky is impossibly blue. The maples and elms that dot the landscape are turning to red and gold. The playing fields are a verdant green. Not for the first time, I think how lucky theses students are to come to a place like this to learn. How lucky I am.
Meanwhile…
My day is full of conferences: students coming in to talk about their college applications, or show me a draft of an essay, or ask a question. Each one is polite, each one wears a coat and tie, each one has a long and productive life stretching out in front of him: college, a career, someday a family and a home of his own. Reasonable expectations for good health, satisfying relationships, travel, productive lives of accomplishment and service. Responsibilities, but also opportunities, all these things simply taken for granted.
Meanwhile…
In the afternoon, I leave the office and walk over to one of the soccer fields to watch my grandson play his first soccer game. His mother is there and his little sister, too. In a few minutes, my wife arrives with another little brother and there we all are, sitting on bleachers in the warm October sun, watching little boys chase a soccer ball on green, green grass. Not a care in the world.
Meanwhile…
Back home, my wife and I pour a glass of wine, sit on the porch, chat and review our respective days. We decide on what to have for dinner. The refrigerator is well-stocked and the freezer is full; we have plenty of choices.
Meanwhile…
Half a world away, a rocket streaks across the sky. An apartment building collapses into rubble. A man is carrying the broken body of a child, his face and hands are covered with dust and smeared with blood. A mother and father are saying goodbye to two of their sons, young men who have been called to duty to fight for their country. They weep and hug each other and say silent prayers. There is death and destruction everywhere. No one is safe, nothing is spared. And this is only the beginning; the days ahead will be worse, much worse, unspeakably worse.
And I feel horribly guilty. I feel powerless. I want to do something, but I have no idea what to do. So I weep for all the innocent civilians who are caught up in this barbarism without food or water or electricity or shelter; for all those who have already died, and all the soldiers who will die in the days to come; for all the hostages sitting in darkness and despair, waiting.
Meanwhile…
I go to sleep in a warm, soft bed next to a loving wife. Here and half a world away, tomorrow is another day.
I’ll be right back.
Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine.
His new novel “This Salted Soil,” a new children’s book, “The Ballad of Poochie McVay,” and two collections of essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”), are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is Musingjamie.net.
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