The Only Thing to DO

In just ten minutes of my morning, the constant rhythm of my thumb reveals a cure for dark undereye circles, my friend’s new puppy, the image of a bearded man with an assault rifle poised at his shoulder entering a bowling alley, a supplement for improved energy, the promise of toned legs with an at-home dumbbell workout, an article on loneliness, ‘Is this perimenopause?’, devastating photos of little children—dirty and blood soaked—caught between the bombings of grown adults, and a recipe for pumpkin flavored ‘boo houses’.

I cannot comprehend the noise. But I stay awhile anyway, flicking my thumb.

I make coffee. I throw on a sweatshirt and search for the last of the baby tomatoes ripening on the vine. I pull the empty garbage bins up from the curb. I switch laundry from the washer to the dryer. I answer emails. I fill the dog’s water dish. I pray.

I remember that I am not wired to carry the weight of the world.

It isn’t fair.

I can simply look away. And I feel guilty.

I will work on my book manuscript. I will fold the laundry. I will throw soup into the crockpot for dinner. I will walk the dog. I will smile as my children run down the hill from school on a Friday afternoon laughing, a jack-o-lantern art project flying from their hands. I will phone a friend. I will chatter to my husband on a much-needed date night at a new restaurant. I will kiss my sleeping children’s faces in the quiet darkness of their rooms and breathe in their sweet smell. I will feel grateful for a warm kitten purring at my feet as I drift off to sleep.

I will live.

It isn’t fair. But it is the only thing I can think of to do.