There she was, crying in high definition.

Her hands, with fingers spread wide, going up and down in a mock pumping fashion. The small child beneath her lay obviously dead. His skin pale with a light yellow tinge to it, the tell tale sign of drowning.

I winced at her contorted face.

She let out a roar of cry, from deep inside her human core, ended in a sob. In turn a small sound escaped my lips, unconsciously, and I cried with her

I cried because her pain was so real, so primal. She had lost a child in an instant. The unfeeling sea stealing his breath and leaving only his mangled body behind as proof of it's authority. Absolute and immutable. Her grief was mighty and substantial.

I started my day feeling bad. My body ached and my back felt like my heart did the day I lost my last lover: bruised and seemingly unfixable. But seeing this woman, her anguish displayed in such a exploitive way, made me forget myself. Forget my worries and gripes. I could only feel for her and her loss. Her sad time come to bear on my shiny TV.

I was humbled, grateful.



The truth is: If I could, I would leave this trap of couch and go help. Build things, comfort people. Be the man t my mother told me to be. But alas, I am still here, watching and hoping things get better. For now, it will have to do.

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