Another Day

The sun rises again

November 11, 2023

Dear Smythe,

Venus hangs. The Moon cradles her from below, watching her patiently, waiting for the sun to rise so the two can go to bed. Beneath the lovers, on the apex of St. Bernadette’s, a row of crows stand clad in long black coats, ready for a funeral. The perfect line is disrupted when a brother flaps in, ignoring the gap waiting for him and creating his own. He lands, and within a few seconds, the line stills and continue their wait. The sky hums with a chilly blue, and Venus and the Moon shine, tendrils of their love singing through.

Later, when the sun has begun to crack the tenebrous air, a single swan paddles on the Grand Canal nipping the dirty water for food. He is lonely. His partner is missing; he hopes to find her soon. Without her, he is only half.

It’s Friday. Freya’s day.

This is what I saw on my walk to the office this morning. I wouldn’t be working back home. It’s Veteran’s Day, when we honor those who have given their lives for the United States, fought for us, defended our freedom and integrity.

Some sacrifice. It’s difficult to feel hopeful about love or dignity when our government is sending billions to fund a war – a genocide – in a dusty, hot corner of the world. Hundreds, thousands, dying. And for what? Is humanity ever going to figure out that there is nothing, really, worth killing for? Worth the death of children? The sick? My heart aches. I can’t bear to read the news; all that gives me hope are the marches, so many marches, around Dublin. They remember what an unjust occupation feels like. Eight hundred years.

I’m holding onto the small things. Remembering that through injustice, there will always be those who fight for what is right. The sun will always rise. When there is a new day, there is promise. There must be.

I hope the swan finds his partner.

Love,
Marguerite