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Stations

Inside the broken-necked chapel, kneeling in the debris of other people’s faith, she held up a stained glass fragment outlining Mary's perfect suffering.

“I could be like this for you,” she said. “I could mourn you so hard it would bring you back.”

I saw her then, in blue, lips bit ragged and bleeding, eyes luminous with the power of a loss unaccepted. A sunrise or bomb blast would turn the world into her halo.

But there, in the church, she brushed dust from her cheek with a pilled sweater sleeve, then held the colored glass flat between her palms. It disappeared like a street magician's trick.

She was supposed to wink. I was supposed to clap. But I took her empty hands in my own and to anyone looking through the rafters’ gaps, it would seem like we were praying.

Bristol Board

I’m not going to respond to your Facebook request of joining a march downtown LA; I’ll simply show up. I can’t reveal how my politics don’t mesh with my workplace values because having a say in politics is no longer safe in a workplace. Not anymore.

I am trying to empathize with the person who wants to help
but also aware how it’s too late.

Because now you know the power of a response, to show your friends what you value. You should have shared that post about a woman’s right to chose is something you agree with, you shouldn’t hide your opinion. Who are you afraid of? Your boss? Your co-workers?

Is this where we are going?
Censoring our opinions in what should be a space of dissent...

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