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I am in a busy airport and keep seeing my cousins going away from me. I say the first and second ones' names and then realize that they are here and avoiding me. I stop in my tracks. I feel deep sadness but I accept it as well.

There is a two year old boy. I love him. He is a delight, bright, loving, busy. I see him looking at the hot wheels table at a daycare, and looking at the car. I am terrified, because I know it is a bomb. He realizes it too. He starts to move away and I know it is too late. I am screaming run, run in my head, but I am not there. I am seeing it, in my head. Then there is a very clinical voice explaining the range of the bomb. He tried to get away and got 15 feet, but the range was 30 feet, and that he was pretty much vaporized. I am overwhelmed that this two year old would recognize a bomb and run and overwhelmed with grief and horror.

I wake up.


BQ 186

I really wish the dream about the bomb was just a dream.

 

I can remember a world where those words would have been fiction.

 

I remember when it would have been a scary image from someone's imagination, but now we live in a world where this is not a story.   

It is not fiction.  It is not just a bad dream that means something.  Or nothing.

 

Now I live in a world where it is news every week.

 

Somewhere, someone - some gun- some bomb- then-  

mayhem-and then people- dozens- sometimes- hundreds are hurt, maimed,  disabled or killed.

 

Every week, sometimes more often.

 

I really wish the dream was just a dream.   

I also wish that the range of a angry person's rage was two feet.    Or less.  

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