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Our World, Our Night

"We never talk about what's important," she'd say, staring up at the moon once the babies were down.

But it wasn't true. We'd talk about hope and diapers and more hope.

"Let's talk about the world."

"Robert Mugabe is still hanging on," I'd say. "Down there in Zimbabwe, in his eighties and still doing his own torturing."

"Stop."

"Bees. All the bees are disappearing."

"Stop"

"The euro is tanking. Oh baby, let's not talk about the euro. This is our world, our night. Let's just look at the moon."

But the moon wasn't enough, never has been. Two breathing souls impaled by a poverty we never saw coming, we didn't have a chance. Not even a couple of babies had magic enough to hold us together, and babies have more magic than most.

I wasn't surprised when she left. We had our nights. But we live in Robert Mugabe's world.

Story by:

William Doonan

doonan1@aol.com

submitted at 2:34am

18 March 2012

William Doonan's web:

www.themummiesofblogspace9.com