At 8:00 in the morning, I’m getting ready to leave the house with the girls to go on a walk. I’m in a hurry–the walk is more for me these days than it is for them. Sometimes I leave the rest of the breakfast on the table, even if I know it teaches the cat a bad habit. I’m expanding the stroller with one hand, carrying the baby in the other, and making sure the toddler doesn’t go into the street.

If it’s really hot already, I go back in to fill up a water bottle for them. On my way out for the second time, I see the bottle of sunscreen, but I can’t. If I don’t get out now, I don’t get out at all. After the walk, I need to go upstairs and start working.

Everything these days, macro and micro, reminds me of how little control I actually have. I have no way of knowing if something will happen that day that will change my life forever. My mind goes back and forth many times during the day processing this fact, aided by the sight of strangers on our walk darting onto the other side of the street, sometimes offering a weary smile. Wanting to fast-forward through the future I don’t want to know, rummaging through the past for comfort, and reminding myself to cherish the present moment. These things are not forever.

At 8:15 in the morning, I’m closing the garage door, putting on my sunglasses and mask, and I begin to push the stroller. I ask the girls which direction they want to explore that day. The Texas sky meets my face for the first time that morning. A brief moment of warmth, quickly followed by fire.

Atomic Bombing of Hiroshima

Categorized as Stories

By Desiree Zamora Garcia

I like to eat, think, and take things apart.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.