Sorry is another word for pain

It is not the time to post what I had written, ready to go. As another writer says, it all seems so banal, my pen has dried up in the face of it all.

Waking up early, the sun finally out after devastating rains, and today, the day our masks can come off, the birds singing, slow movements of premature spring and my granddaughter playing with her scooter up and down the hallway, it all feels possible.

I turn on the radio, pour a coffee

sit down to listen

to the terrible news from far away

Violette smiles so sweetly, ready to go to playgroup where she learns to colour in the lines. I watch her curls bob on her shoulder as she runs up and down,

sorry is another word for pain,

my mother said this afternoon, I saw the Sino-Japanese war, I saw the second world war, and now I see this. I am sorry,

so sorry for all of you, for I have lived long and lived well

What can I say?

What can I do?

We watch the cars, family full, waiting to get out to Poland, to Lithuania, some will not leave, one woman says we will stay in our apartment, we can not leave, to go where?

Go where?

To whom?

Yesterday there was still some hope we would be able to stay in the line as Violette can.

But, yesterday is gone.

Today is now, 

now, tonight this is what I shall post. I do not want to sound trite, I just wanted to stay something.

I will lie in a warm bed next to my granddaughter, she is safe, and at peace. But I feel I will not sleep easily, nor well, 

sorry is another word for pain …