The news is bad.

The terrible man in the White House with the manicured lawn has paved over the roses. He’s planting chaos with intention and settling seeds of hatred into the hearts of people that are simply too blind to see that they won’t be immune to the havoc he’s wrecking on an entire nation. He’s sending waves of men in shades of green with guns sprouting at their hips and from their hands to sow fear into the hearts of ordinary citizens on ordinary days. And at our house—no longer our house—Bermuda grass now grows where our garden used to thrive.

The news is bad, and it hits me in the chest.

The children are hiding beneath their desks again, or between the pews, or in the art supply closet, where they wait to see if their blood will intermingle with the watercolors or if they’ll be here when the school bell rings. I’m angry, because even though I know that people are people and not all were born with hands made to pull magic from the earth, I close my eyes and can still smell the spicy-sweet of those peonies on a late spring day, dotted with bees and so very alive. I’m angry, because the hands that hold the tools that snatch life from those school children should not have been able to access those tools at all.