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Rotation

I'm about to go to bed like I do every night.  Like I do every night, I picked out my clothes for tomorrow; I washed my face; I brushed my teeth.  Unlike every night, however, before I picked out my clothes, before I washed my face, and before I brushed  my teeth, I told my nine-year-old son that his father was moving out of the house.  I watched  the tears run down his face, I listened to him cry and say that he didn't want his father to go, and I silently cried along with him when he clutched his father and sobbed.  Afnd after all that, here I am, having just picked out my clothes for tomorrow; having just washed my face; having just brushed my teeth, ready for bed just like I am every night. 

How is it possible, after everything that happens in our lives, that life just goes on? How is it possible that I sit here and type, having just picked out my clothes for tomorrow; having just washed my face; having just brushed my teeth just like I do on every other night? How is it possible that the earth didn't pause, that for a moment, for the time it takes to take a breath, the time it takes to blink an eye, the time it takes to sneeze a sneeze, for just one solitary slip of a second, life didn't stop? How did I pick out my clothes for tomorrow? Wash my face? Brush my teeth? How can I sit here and type? How, how, how can life go on?

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planetcherry
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