Three moments in America today that reach beyond my ability with words, striking only the rudimentary language of grief:

Six months ago, three white cops killed a Black woman named Breonna Taylor while she slept. Today one officer was charged for “wonton endangerment” because one of his bullets shattered a neighbor’s window and could have killed someone. The officers who did murder somebody still have their jobs. They can still walk around and do things. Because that’s the law. It’s just one of those things, say the legal experts. Even though it’s never the other way around.

Today our president suggested there might not be a peaceful transfer of power after the election.

Over 200,000 Americans have died from this pandemic so far. In Austin, an artist has been planting little red flags in his yard, one for every Texan who has died of the coronavirus. He has over 15,000 so far. And although I cannot find the words, this small gesture of marking and honoring each life gives me a small glimmer of hope.

Each night in 2020, I wrote a short post for a series called Notes From the End of a World because I wanted to etch these days into my memory. Before the world changed completely.
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