The Chilling Sounds of Darkness Fall Upon the Land.

When the light has gone from our homes and our lives. Image; Pinterest

So again and again and again come the disquieting, somber, sobering words reminding us that our houses are not nearly as safe as we once thought them to be.

Safe as houses.

Children, in their delightful innocence, filled with boundless, joyful, smiling excitement and magical wonder and the very essence and hope and promise of life itself, skip and bounce off to school.

And don’t come home.

Couples go out for a stroll.

And are overrun on streets and sidewalks.

And don’t come home.

Those of all ages, by the twos and threes and fours and by the tens and twenties and thirties and forties and fifties and now even maybe the sixties go out for work or a respite from their labors and don’t come home.

For more and more and more come the words that have the chilling, haunting, eerie sound of the ever-gathering darkness:

“We have multiple casualties.

“We have multiple casualties.”

And, once more, the sun doesn’t come up and, even if and when it might, is eclipsed for days, weeks, months, years on end.

So again and again and again come the disquieting, somber, sobering words that remind that our houses are not nearly as safe as we once thought them to be.

Believed them to be.

Want them to be.

Wish them to be.

For once more come the words that rob.

Rob, claim, stab the peace.

Steal whatever measure of well being, tranquility we might possibly have left.

Dispense gloom beyond belief.

Incessantly shake, unnerve our individual and collective hearts to the nub.

Souls to their foundations.

When will it end?

When, please, when?

Ever?

Never?

The words come again and again and again.

From here.

From there.

Across the land.

Just down the way.

From projected places.

From unexpected places.

“We have multiple casualties.”

Each time they do, we are dazed, forlorn, distraught.

Shoved into a debilitating fog.

Wandering, staggering aimlessly in the hopeless, horrific desert of disbelief.

The disorienting maze of deep, ensnarling shock.

Left to wonder.

To ask:

How safe are our houses?

Each time, we are challenged to confront face-to-face the compelling question right before our frightful eyes, the disconcerting question that keeps coming and coming and coming and overwhelms and won’t go away:

How much more of the music has stopped?

Roger Summers is a journalist and essayist.

, , , , , , , , , , ,

Related Posts