I push my reading glasses with my index finger. The rim grazing the tip of my nose. The cows grazing the tips of the grass. I watch a squirrel jump from tree branch to tree floor and scurry away with the agility and speed I lost too many years ago. I glance back to the crumpling, fading paper I hold between my clammy palms. Furrowing my brow, I try to make out the once black ink turned grey. I question why I continue to attempt to read the words on the page for I have memorized its entirety.

The words are not necessary for me to recall what had been. Red-Blue sirens. White and black strong. Rainbow flags waving. Souls linked arm on arm. The chaos boiling over uncooked futures. Lid right next to pot but no one brave enough to place it on top. No one considered turning the heat down. Not until after all the damage was done. And once the water settled, and the steam had disappeared, all that was left were the burnt remains of potential and change.

A sweet gentle breeze carries me back into reality. I stiffen my grip on the disappointment at hand. Not wanting to forget, not willing to let go. The words on the page that I had trusted for so long deceived me at my most vulnerable. They had said only 47 died. That they had all died with honor and with purpose. But to them, did all lives really matter?