by William McCarthy
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| "American Exceptionalism" by Nick Anderson. |
“We never thought it would happen here,” my neighbor Sheila says.
Flags fly at half-staff; the governor holds me in his thoughts and prayers.
Another surge in the sale of assault weapons.
My senator reiterates that guns don’t kill people, people kill people.
My senator holds me in his thoughts and prayers.
More dollars promised to help the mentally ill.
Flags fly at half-staff; my governor reiterates that guns don’t kill people, people kill people.
Congress proposes another bill, weakens it, lets it die in committee.
Even more dollars promised to help the mentally ill.
On the six o’clock news, my children leave the church with my coffin.
Congress proposes another bill, weakens it, lets it die in committee.
The surgeons release my wife from the ICU.
On the six o’clock news, my children leave the church with my coffin.
Newspapers savor the irony: I survived a mass shooting a month ago, only to die in this one.
The surgeons release my wife from the ICU.
My thirteen-year-old daughter tells Anderson Cooper how much she will miss me.
Newspapers savor the irony: I survived a mass shooting a month ago, only to die in this one.
Another surge in the sale of assault weapons.
My governor’s wife holds my two-month-old son in her arms.
“We never thought it would happen here.”
Thirty years ago William McCarthy joined the Connecticut Writing Project and hasn’t recovered yet. “Since then," he writes, "I've tendered my drafts almost monthly in a writing group of other recovering CWP teachers. There’s a closeness among us we get nowhere else, as we share bits and pieces of our lives—our trials with truculent pianos, unpredictable children, and failing parents. Part is honing our craft, part is shaping our experiences, part is understanding who we are.”