Flag Day

Since my teenage years, Flag Day has possessed a pocketful of glee. 

Mandy and I declared this day our unofficial friendship holiday almost three decades ago. It was an easy date to remember because it would always be on the calendar, and ambiguous enough that even those closest to us wouldn’t question it when we giggled at the mention. That was just Mandy and I. So many ridiculous, and likely immature, inside jokes that our families just shrugged at because it was Mandy and Becky. Best friends since fifth grade. 

Today, there’s a solemnity in my core that is twisting my heart like someone impulsively trying out a Rubik’s cube for the first time. 

Mandy has been dead for two years. 

It’s a No Kings March day. 

I woke to the news that two Democratic Minnesotan lawmakers and their families were shot in their own homes. 

Two have already died, and the shooter is still at large. 

I’m trying incredibly hard to grasp why so many live with this unbearable hate in their hearts that murder seems like a reasonable coping mechanism. Why? Enough people are dying. Car accidents. Natural disasters. Chemicals in our food. Cancer. 

I want to scream as loud as I can. 

I want to go to the march and watch parents push happy toddlers holding up “Love Over Hate” signs and know that they will be safe. 

I want to remember all my giggles with Mandy.

And I can’t do any of it.